


Run with me

by saltzatore



Series: Howl-Universe [2]
Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 07:23:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltzatore/pseuds/saltzatore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since Klaus released Alaric after possessing him, Alaric has felt different. Like he is not himself anymore. Something has changed, something he can't put his finger on. He stays with Elena and Jeremy to keep an eye on them, tries to get his life under control, but he doesn't feel safe.</p><p>Meanwhile, Damon tries to get his brother back, searching for Stefan and trying to track him and the newly turned hybrid down. Elena and Alaric accompany him on his roadtrips, but the search for Stefan turns into something more dangerous when Klaus begins to display an alarming interest in Alaric. Something about the teacher has caught the hybrid's attention and he seems determined to draw Alaric to his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If you could only see

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pleasebekidding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasebekidding/gifts).



> When I sat out to start this I never thought this would turn into what I have officially named "The Alaric Saltzman Appreciation Story". It has always bugged me how little Alaric reacted to whatever happened to him in the show and I wanted to change that and get into his head to find out. I did that and also added a little something to his character/the story line. The story mainly follows the canon happenings until that one point until it turns AU. Completely AU.
> 
> This story wouldn't have been possible AT ALL without the help of one person: pleasebekidding, my Starbuck. She held my hand, she plotted with me, she listened to hours of me crying my eyes out about recent episodes. She also made the art for this and I wouldn't have wanted anyone else to do it since she knows this story almost better than me and it shows. And I LOVE her for that and will be forever grateful that she's been at my side for this. I love you, hun. You have no idea HOW MUCH. Thank you so much for EVERYTHING. Paella!
> 
> In memory of Alaric Saltzman, badass history teacher and 2nd best hunter of the supernatural.

_~~~~~*~~~~~_

_Does this place look different in the sunlight?_

Alaric never comes here during the day, so he doesn’t know. He never sees more than dark shadows where there should be scars burnt into the ground. In the dark of the night the trees surrounding the clearing look like silent sentries guarding a place of unspeakable horrors. They probably look different with sunlight streaming through their tops, no longer a dark, solid shape but hundreds of small leaves rustling slightly in the wind. Maybe there are animals here during the day. Squirrels in the trees and rabbits on the ground. All kinds of birds singing merrily in the sunshine.

The smell won’t be different, though.

Whether he comes here by day or night, it will always smell the same. He will always detect a hint of burnt earth on the wind. A trace of blood that still lingers around the big stone near the foot of the hill. Maybe it’s there, maybe it’s real. Maybe it isn't. Maybe he smells it because he thinks it should be there, because it’s one of the few things he still remembers clearly about that night.

He’s found a log on top of the hill that’s strong enough to sit on, close enough to the edge to be able to look down into the clearing. To watch the dark forest behind the thick grass. Sometimes he sits here for what feels like hours, watching the moon, watching the stars. Losing himself in memories of a past that seems so distant he isn't even sure if any of it ever happened.

Sometimes he thinks he shouldn’t be able to come back here.

It should be physically impossible to set foot on this ground. There should be revulsion. Anger. Hatred. Cutting off his air, choking him with its intensity. He should feel sick to his stomach. Go blind with rage as soon as he sees the clearing. He should _loathe_ this place; wish he’d never have to see it again. Never have to come back here for as long as he lives.

And if not that, then he should at least feel uncomfortable and sad. Like how you feel when you enter a graveyard. When the mournful silence descends over your senses and you instinctively lower your voice to hushed tones. When you walk slower and turn your gaze inwards, remembering all the people you have lost and buried. When you pay your respects to those who have come (and left) before you.

Maybe he shouldn’t be here.

Maybe he shouldn’t feel as relaxed—at peace—as he does.

Maybe he should be ashamed of himself for coming back as often as he does. For enjoying the silence, the solitude of this place.

He isn't.

To him, this place means safety. Some sense of belonging. He doesn’t feel like an intruder here.

Not that he’s not welcome at his current home. Elena and Jeremy both want him to stay at the Gilbert house with them. He looks after them, makes sure they have someone to talk to, keeps the fridge filled and does the laundry. Spends endless hours on the couch in the living-room, staring at the TV, not watching whatever’s on. They don’t talk a lot, but he never misses how Elena looks a little less tense whenever she finds him in the kitchen, ordering take-out for the evening. Or how Jeremy makes sure to be home early enough to keep some kind of curfew they never really set up.

They need each other to keep up at least some pretense of normalcy, of meaning to their lives. They need each other to be able to go on, to heal. So that they can start all over again.

Alaric sucks at starting over. When Isobel… died, he didn’t leave his old life behind. He didn’t move on, he didn’t try to get over it and let go—no. He clung to it—to _her_ —desperately, unwilling to give up any of it. He used his love for her to fuel him, give him strength to find her killer. Took what was left of their wonderful marriage and turned it into an obsession strong enough to get him through the days, through the pain. Through the loneliness.

This time it's different.

Sometimes he thinks that, maybe, he didn't love Jenna enough. That, whatever they had, it wasn’t strong enough to last beyond the moment of her death. That, maybe, they had already been over—or never been close enough to mean something—long before the ritual tore her from his side.

When he hears Elena cry herself to sleep at night, even when he knows that at least half her tears are shed over the uncertain whereabouts of her boyfriend. When he sees Jeremy’s empty, listless eyes in the morning before the coffee wakes him up enough to remind him to hide behind a sad smile.

Those are the moments Alaric feels like a traitor.

Those are the moments when he remembers Jenna’s smile, how her eyes would light up whenever he entered a room.

“There you are.” She’d beam at him, stopping whatever she was doing to kiss his cheek. And then, more often than not, that mischievous twinkle would creep into her eyes and she’d lean even closer. Whisper into his ear. “I can’t wait for them to _leave_.”

And he’d grin back, pull her close and kiss her until they both had to come up for air, mindless of Jeremy rolling his eyes at them whenever he caught them making out at the foot of the stairs. Or at the top of the stairs. Or in front of her room.

When he remembers this, now, he still misses her. But it’s not with the mind-numbing flash of pure grief that had always stolen his breath whenever he thought back to Isobel. He misses Jenna like he would miss a distant friend, someone he would occasional spend some time with. Someone who never got closer than a friendly hug for a greeting, or a slap on the shoulder for good-bye.

Someone who could have become much more than this—but never did.

He hates himself for his lack of grief. Feels miserable for not being able to shed a single tear for Jenna’s memory, for all the time they’ve spent together. Sometimes he doesn’t want to get off the couch because he’s hurting so much about not being able to hurt enough.

Sometimes he just wants to leave the house as fast as he can and never look back.

Technically, he still has his apartment. He's been there a couple of times, to get some of his stuff. Always with Damon tagging along to watch his back. Not that he would be of use if they'd accidentally stumbled into an Original meeting, but he’s moral support. Well, as much moral support as Damon ever provides. Most of the time it comes in the form of bourbon that tastes too good to decline and results in a pleasant evening of drinking—and passing out on the couch.

"There are bedrooms upstairs," Damon tells him, every time Alaric is about to drift off. “If you need to drool on something while you’re asleep, you might as well do it where I don’t have to watch you.”

He doesn’t remember what he answers, but apparently he turns down the offer, since he wakes up on the couch each and every time.

He keeps drifting between two places. Elena, Jeremy, Damon, those are the three people he sees over the summer break. And Caroline, sometimes, when she picks up Elena and tries to distract her for a few hours by taking her to the movies. Bonnie spends the summer with her father’s relatives and she and Jeremy phone every night. With the supernatural threat gone, they behave like teenagers again. Traumatized teenagers who cry themselves to sleep at night or spend the whole evening on the phone… but teens nonetheless.

Alaric doesn’t sleep well anymore. He falls asleep—and wakes up maybe half an hour later. Jerks awake with his heart racing, pounding so hard against his ribcage it hurts. At first he thought it had to be nightmares. That his mind is processing all the horrors he’s been through, waking him up if they get too bad. To protect him. A normal reaction to having been used as a meat-suit by a thousand year-old vampire and losing his girlfriend in a bloody ritual.

The problem is there is no way to find out what a normal reaction to all of this would be. There is no support group for people like him, he can’t just pick up the phone, dial a number and talk about what’s happened to him to someone on a crisis hotline. He has to figure out a way to deal with this on his own.

So far he’s found out that he sucks at trying to help himself. He’s never been particularly good at helping others, so this didn’t really come as a big surprise.

And it doesn’t help that, most of the time, he’s so tired he could just fall over, close his eyes and go to sleep. He’s used to not getting enough rest; he can go for two days without any sleep at all. Three with only a little shuteye at a time if he _really_ has to.

But this?

It’s driving him nuts. He’s so wound up inside he feels like his head is buzzing constantly, he just can’t catch a break and relax for a moment.

The combination of little sleep and his usual less-than-healthy drinking makes him tense on his better days. Irritable on his worse. Downright mean, bordering on anti-social on the worst days. On most days, sadly. Things he normally doesn’t even think about suddenly cost him a lot of patience. Going to the supermarket and having to stand in line, having to wait at the cashpoint—it requires a sort of concentration it never has before. He repeatedly finds himself _scowling_ at people who take longer. Has to hold himself back again and again to _not_ snap at them.

But it’s always with people he doesn’t know. He’s never been rude to the kids or even Damon, no matter how much his best friend sometimes tries his patience. It’s a small relief, but at least he’s not driving away the few people who still care about him.

If he isn't busy behaving like a jerk, he zones out. All the time. All of a sudden he will become aware that he has been staring off into space for god knows how long, usually when he’s doing something that requires at least some sort of concentration. He’s burnt more than one meal because he didn’t notice in time that it had started smelling weird. Had to start it all over again. Or order take-out for dinner because that’s less of an effort.

Sometimes his body acts up. Twice now, he’s felt his heart being crushed in a merciless grip, the pain so intense it had taken his breath away, sending him to his knees.

 _Heart-attack_ , he’d thought dimly, gasping for breath as he’d writhed on the floor. Scared to death that this would be it, that a natural death would just take him and he’d lived through all the horror for nothing.

It’s the ring. Has to be. Dying and coming back from the dead, twice in one year? It must have damaged something. Something the doctors in the hospital didn’t pick up. Something supernatural. Maybe it’s the price he has to pay for yet another chance to make the most of his miserable life. It doesn’t make sense, why bring him back from the dead only to kill him again?

Maybe the ring is broken. Who knows how centuries old magic works? Maybe the ring has a use-by date and gets wonky after that. Maybe his days are numbered and he’ll simply drop dead and that’s it.

Sometimes he is desperate to believe this. To blame everything that is happening to him on the ring and the dying and the stress and the mess they are in.

It’s easier this way. It’s easier to pretend it’s the ring. Or the dying. Or the stress. All of that is easier to accept than the truth.

There’s a place in his heart, deep down, somewhere close to where his body and soul become one. A place where he keeps his secrets, his most private thoughts. Like the fact that he’s always known Isobel wasn’t _dead_ -dead. That, once he’d found out that vampires are real, he’d known she’d been turned. That he was looking for a killer who had never taken her life.

And right there, right next to that ugly part of his life is the latest shocker, the frightening truth about everything that’s wrong with him.

It’s Klaus.

It’s his _blood_.

It’s still there, pumping through Alaric’s veins. It shouldn’t be possible, it should have been out of his system weeks ago—but it isn't. He can feel it. It’s there, inside him. _Burning_ just beneath his skin. It’s doing all those things to him, not letting him sleep through the night, making him lose his self-control, bit by bit. It’s hurting him, every fucking day, poisoning his mind with every beat of his heart.

 

 

Klaus’s blood means pain, it hurts when they force it into your body. The more they give you, the weaker you get. You start to lose yourself, slowly, so slowly, sluggish thought by sluggish thought. No matter how hard you try to fight. You start to drift, you begin to realize how tired you are, how exhausted… how little strength you have left. How little of your will—of your self is left. A voice— _his_ voice will start whispering in your mind, promising to look after you, to keep you safe. You don’t believe the voice, you know that you will lose everything if you listen to it, if you do as it says, if you give in and let it take over.

You know that you will be gone, maybe even forever and you don’t want that, your mind struggles against that with all that’s left and you promise yourself to not give in, to never give in—

Then the blood kicks in and what you want or not want doesn’t matter anymore because it drags you down, into oblivion. It floods your mind like the tide overrunning a sand castle at the beach, destroying it beyond recognition.

 _His_ voice following you down into the darkness.

“Finally…”

~~~~~*~~~~~


	2. Screaming in the dark

  


_“I’m not a ripper, Ric, I don’t black out. I don’t know what I’d do if I did… Let’s hope we’ll never find out.”_

__~ Damon ~_ _  


 

~~~~*~~~~

“Ric."  
  
The voice, low yet insistent, finds him even in the darkest corner of his mind.  
  
"Ric, wake up."  
  
He makes a sound of protest and turns away from the words. He needs to go back to the place he was before, it was quiet there. He likes quiet.  
  
A noise assaults his ear, some loud, scraping sound that seems oddly rhythmic and musical. It’s getting closer and the increasing volume does nothing for the bad sound. He cracks open one eye to find a blurry version of Elena lean over the back of the couch. She’s holding something small and black close to his face; it’s his phone.  
  
“It’s Damon.” Elena drops the cell on his chest and leans back.  
  
Alaric blinks groggily in the bright light and grabs the phone, blindly searching for the button to accept the call.  
  
“What?” Ugh, his throat feels like he’s been choking down gravel, he barely gets the word out.  
  
“You up yet?” Damon sounds as cheerful as ever. And very much  _awake_ .  
  
“What is it?” Alaric pulls himself into a sitting position and looks around. The DVD player flashes a happy  _11.37 am_  at him. Way too early.  
  
“Elena back? Bark twice for ‘yes’,  _Lassie_ .”  
  
“What?” Alaric looks up to watch Elena walk back to the kitchen, about to call her back and ask her to make sense of this, but Damon is talking again.  
  
“We need to talk about something I don’t want her to know about, so watch what you’re saying. You up for a road trip to Memphis?”  
  
Alaric isn’t following. “What is—what do you need me for?”  
  
“Got a tip from the lovely girl across the room from you, seems like Forbes dug up a valid lead this time. I need backup for this. You up for it?” A pause, then, “Ric, are you even awake?”  
  
“I think,” he offers cautiously, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes.  
  
“Meet me here in an hour, you’re driving.”  
  
Alaric cuts the connection, drops the phone on the couch, and tries to figure out what he’s supposed to do now. Memphis? That’s several hours’ drive, you don’t just go there for any lead—  
  
“What did he want?” Elena is trying too hard to sound casual, but he’s still half-asleep and barely remembers the go-to-lie he’s been using the past days for anything Elena isn’t allowed to find out.  
  
“Something that has to do with something I’m not supposed to tell you about.”  
  
Elena eloquently rolls her eyes; phrased like that it’s clear he’s talking about the birthday party everybody is trying to keep a secret. Unsuccessfully, by the way, since she found out about it the day Caroline started planning it.  
  
Still, she always plays along. “Have fun then.” She walks out of the room, but stops at the stairs. Shoots him a worried look. “Ric… you were doing it again, are you sure you’re okay?”  
  
Alaric winces, feels himself tense uncomfortably. They have this conversation nearly every morning. ‘It’ refers to weird noises he is supposed to make in his sleep.  
  
“You’re moaning, like you’re in pain, Ric. In serious pain. I’m worried about you.”  
  
Elena wakes him up whenever it gets so loud it scares her, eyes wide and worried. He always feels fine, a little stiff, maybe, from sleeping on the couch. And tired, but he’s constantly feeling tired these days. He doesn’t remember any bad dreams, no nightmares, nothing. Still, it’s bad enough Elena looks seriously troubled whenever she wakes him.  
  
“I’m fine, Elena, don’t worry.”  
  
She doesn’t buy it, but they’ve been over it so often she no longer asks. “Okay.” Elena starts to get up the stairs, stops in the middle. “Oh, and Ric… Please tell Caroline I asked you to keep the party small.”  
  
Alaric grins. “I’ll tell her,” he says, futile as they both know it will be. “But I’m not promising anything.”  
  
Elena disappears upstairs. Alaric leans back against the couch, taking a deep breath. A road trip to Memphis, Tennessee, first thing in the morning. Great.  
  
What the hell can they possibly find out there?  


~~~~*~~~~

  
The house is quiet.  
  
It’s a farmhouse and there are no other houses close enough to see, fields and a lonely road stretching out across the land as far as the eye can see. Damon and Alaric get out of the car, listening to the silence. A church bell sounds in the distance, a dog starts barking somewhere down the road, falls silent again. It’s a strange peace, unnatural.  
  
Just as Alaric is about to say something, Damon’s phone starts ringing, sounding unusually loud in the quiet. Damon looks at the caller ID, rolls his eyes and puts the cell back into his pocket. Like he has done at least a dozen times on the drive here.  
  
“Elena?” Alaric walks around the car. “I don’t know why you just don’t come clean and tell her were we are.”  
  
"Because Andie said this was a half lead and I don't want to get her hopes up."  
  
It's not really a lie, but it isn’t the complete truth either. Damon doesn’t want her to come along because they have no idea what they will find here. It’s the first time they’ve actually followed a lead all the way to its source. It can be nothing or they could be walking right in to a trap.  
  
"Well, they’re all half leads, and I'm your accomplice." Alaric thinks back to the morning, to Elena watching him critically as he was trying to find his bearings and not spill the beans about their plan to drive here. "What do you want me to say to her, I'm practically living there."  
  
"Still sleeping on the couch?" Damon asks, grinning, as if he doesn’t already know that Alaric still is.  
  
“You know, I keep waiting for them to kick me out, but they don’t.” He shrugs. “I don’t know why, it’s not like him helping or anything.”  
  
Actually, it’s more the other way around. Elena and Jeremy remind him, day after day, that both of them lost so much more than him. And even though it’s not easy at the moment, they still find a way to keep going and live their lives. Which, more often than not, is more than can be said about him.  
  
Damon makes a non-committal sound, still busy scanning the surroundings. Alaric follows his gaze, getting more and more suspicious of the silence.  
  
“It’s quiet.”  
  
“Too quiet,” Damon agrees.  
  
They head up the porch. Damon doesn’t bother to knock or ring the bell; he simply opens the door and tests the threshold with his foot. It goes through without any kind of resistance. Whoever is living here… probably isn’t any longer among the living.  
  
Alaric follows Damon inside, hesitating for a moment when he is hit by the smell, sweet and nauseating at the same time. It’s the smell of blood, a lot of it. A soft buzzing sound tickles his ears, almost at the edge of his hearing, like dozens of insects nearby. He keeps an eye on the staircase leading up as he follows Damon through the hallway. He should have brought his crossbow, something’s not right here, despite the stillness there’s some kind of tension in the air.  
  
Damon stops walking, eyes fixed on something inside the room next to him. Alaric immediately readies himself to fight if something should attack them—but nothing happens. Alaric joins him at the door to see for himself, regretting his move immediately.  
  
On first glance it looks like the two girls are watching TV, chilling out on the couch. But they are too still, they don’t move, lifeless eyes fixed on nothing. Both of them are pale, bloody wounds visible all over their bodies. Bite marks on their throats, on their wrists, on their legs, their arms…  
  
"Ugh, vampire for sure." Alaric looks to the side. He will never get used to the sight of dead people.  
  
“Stefan for sure.” Damon’s voice has a weird tone to it, part relief—and part annoyance.  
  
Alaric doesn’t want to know, but he has to ask. “How do you know?”  
  
Damon slowly walks into the room. “It's his signature; there's a reason they call him the ripper." He eyes the girls for a moment. "He feeds so hard he blacks out and rips them apart, but when he's done, he feels remorse. It's the damndest thing," he lifts a foot and places it on one of the girls legs, "he put the bodies back together." Damon gives the leg a push—and the whole body shudders and literally  _collapses_ : The head falls to the floor with a dull thud, one arm flops to the side.  
  
Alaric’s stomach clenches painfully. “Back together?”  
  
Damon crosses his arms in front of his chest, staring at the bodies. "Definitely Stefan."  
  
Alaric has to step away, get his head clear. He takes a deep breath. “Awesome.”  
  
Damon shrugs. “Let’s split up, you look through the rooms here; see if you can find something useful, I’ll search the rooms upstairs.”  
  
Alaric hesitates. He’d feel so much better if he’d brought at least some of his weapons along.  
  
Damon displays his uncanny insight into Alaric’s body language again. Or maybe he is simply reading his thoughts; Alaric wouldn’t put it past him. “Relax, Ric, the house is empty, there’s no one here but us.” He walks by him, giving Alaric a slap on the shoulder as he passes him. “No one living, that is.”  
  
Alaric knows him better than to buy the (too) obvious casualness. Damon is worried, shaken by what he has seen here. Maybe not as much as Alaric himself—vampire victims rarely (if ever) look like this—but still enough for Damon to play this as cool as he can; a dead giveaway that whatever has happened has him in emotional turmoil.  
  
Damon’s steps disappear up the stairs. Alaric gladly backs away from the living-room and turns to the kitchen. The door is half-open and the lights are on. He slowly pushes the door open, still alert and careful despite Damon’s claim that they are alone… and freezes in the doorway.  
  
It looks so normal, like someone was in the middle of preparing dinner and ran off to answer the phone. Plates are laid out on the table, a bottle of Coke opened, a glass half-full. Vegetables cut on the on the counter, the knife next to them, a magazine open in front of a chair. For a moment he can imagine the two girls chatting away over the preparation of the food, alive and laughing, enjoying the evening.  
  
He actually has to force himself to breathe past the sudden lump forming in his throat. This is so wrong, it shouldn’t have happened. Those girls shouldn’t have died like this, not at the hands of such a ruthless, bloodthirsty monster.  
  
At the hands of Stefan Salvatore.  
  
It’s hard—if not impossible—to accept the fact that this has been Stefan’s doing. That Stefan, polite, well-mannered, protective  _Stefan_ is able to do this. To kill, to feed like an animal, brutal and merciless. Damon kills, Alaric has seen him do it, more than once, has cursed him, more than once, for losing it, for taking someone’s life. It’s the part of Damon that will forever be impossible to understand or forgive.  
  
But Damon has never been cruel, has never lost himself in the thrill of the hunt.  
  
At least not when they had been hunting or hanging out together.  
  
This… this is something entirely different. Even Isobel, as cold-hearted and distant as she had been, even she had seemed in control of herself. When he had no longer been able to look at her as the woman he had once loved more than anything in the entire world—he had never thought of her as a monster, not in the sense of a blood-thirsty animal that would tear its victims apart.  
  
 _Elena needs to see this, she needs to know._  
  
It will break her heart. Hell, it’s breaking  _his_ heart and he isn’t crying himself to sleep over Stefan every night. Alaric runs a hand over his face, thinking. He doesn’t even know how to tell her. How do you tell someone that the person they love is a murderer? It’s no news that vampires kill, Elena probably knows more about this side of her boyfriend than she should, but Alaric doubts that she has realized the whole extent of his nature. He certainly hadn’t before now, and he considers himself something of an expert on vampires.  
  
Alaric shakes his head slightly, willing himself back to the present. He walks to the backdoor that leads to the garden and opens it. Two deck chairs, a book on one of them, fields as far as the eye can see, a small group of trees to the right. Normal, no signs of an intruder.  
  
He's about to close the door and go back into the hallway—when he feels ice-cold fingers ghost across his neck. It almost feels like a caress. Alaric gasps in shock and whirls around, arms raised to defend himself—but there is no one there, he is alone in the kitchen.  
  
“What the—“  
  
The hallway on the other end of the kitchen is empty. No shadows, no movement, nothing.  
  
Alaric takes a step toward the hallway—and freezes when a shiver jolts through his body.  
  
 _Klaus_ .  
  
He’s been there, Alaric knows it, he can  _feel_ it. Klaus was standing at the exact same spot where he is right now, the feeling is so strong he almost reaches out for—something that isn't there. It’s wrong, it should be here, he wants it  _back_ …  
  
Alaric is so lost in the moment that he jumps when he hears steps on the stairs. He takes a deep breath—and flinches when Damon suddenly appears at the end of the hallway.  
  
And the feeling is gone. Just like that.  
  
"Did you find anything?"  
  
Alaric blinks several times, shakes his head. "Nothing," he says, feeling a little dazed. "You?"  
  
Damon shakes his head. "There are some horribly romantic history novels upstairs. You could have a look at them, check whether they’re historically correct?” He winks, leans closer to get a look at the kitchen behind Alaric. “The rest of the house is clean, no more bodies, no secret messages.”  
  
"It was a perfectly normal family until they met your brother," Alaric says softly, trying not to sound overly dramatic.  
  
"At least we know he's alive now.” Damon shrugs. “Let me get something from the car."  
  
Alaric takes a long, last look over the kitchen and steps out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Wishing it was that easy to leave all those pictures and impressions behind as well.  
  
Damon comes back inside, carrying a tank of gasoline. He heads for the living-room and Alaric joins him, watching as the vampire starts to pour the liquid over the bodies and the couch.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
"Covering their tracks. Clearly they have no interest staying in the dark, but I do."  
  
The strong, unpleasant smell of the gasoline mixing with the blood is overwhelming, causing Alaric to take a step back. Beneath his shoes, the floor groans, a loose floor-board creaking. Damon puts the tank down and comes over, flipping the carpet aside, revealing a hidden door. They share a suspicious look and Damon pulls the door open. A different smell drifts toward them, something Alaric picks up even over the blood and the gasoline. It’s familiar; earthy, strange, but definitely familiar. But that’s not all there is, the small room they discover is full of chains attached to the wall and the floor. Claw marks litter the walls, drops of dried blood next to them.  
  
Alaric realizes what this means before Damon opens his mouth to say it.  
  
“Well, what do you know…” Damon sniffs the air, takes a closer look. “Werewolves.”  
  
Damon lets the door fall shut with a bang, pulls a box of matches out of his jeans. He lights one of the matches and looks over at Alaric. “Any last words?”  
  
Alaric rolls his eyes and takes a step back, watching as Damon drops the match on the floor. The bodies immediately catch fire. The smell of burnt flesh has Alaric back away and head for the front door only moments later. Once outside, he takes a deep breath of fresh air, trying to loosen his tense muscles a little.  
  
Damon appears next to him, pretending to dust off his clothes. “Mission accomplished,” he says as he stalks to the car, not looking back.  
  
Damon’s not happy, it shows: in the tight set of his shoulders, in the measured steps, in the controlled movements. Alaric turns to have one last look at the house, then gets into the car as well.  
  


~~~~*~~~~

  
It’s already starting to go dark outside and Alaric can feel himself start to get really tired. They are just outside Memphis when he finally decides to speak up. “How are we going to tell Elena?”  
  
Damon stays silent for a long moment. “’Yes, Elena, your boyfriend is still alive, but he’s reenacting his greatest moments from the past. Here, have some cake’.” He chuckles, but it’s a humorless sound. “One hell of a birthday present.”  
  
“She has to know—“  
  
“I know, Ric, believe me, I  _know_ .” Damon heaves a long sigh that sounds only partly exaggerated. “Stefan in ripper-mode is a douche… Those girls in the house? If he’s really gone? That was just a snack, to last until he finds the next human being…” He rolls his head on the headrest, looking at Alaric from the side. “You think I’m rude and impossible around humans? Kill too much? Wait till you meet him; you’ll never call me a monster again.”  
  
“Why would he go back on human blood? I thought he was on an animal-diet, wasn’t that what you were always fighting about?”  
  
Damon turns to look at the street again. “Remember the blood bags we found at your apartment? I’m thinking he might have had some of them, enough to flip the switch. Stefan has always been unstable—but he’s one hell of an actor. The Stefan you know? All controlled and loving humans and fighting to be human? That’s Stefan ignoring what his senses are telling him, what his instincts are begging him to do. Have you ever seen me flip out at the sight of blood?”  
  
Alaric shakes his head, he’s been hurt often enough around Damon, he can’t recall a single time Damon looked at him differently, like he was about to eat him. Or tear his limbs from his body.  
  
Damon shrugs. “That’s because I’m used to it. Even when I’m really hungry, I can control the urges. Stefan—he craves human blood with every cell of his body. Even a small wound will set him off, draw out the animal in him. I warned him, I told him what would happen, but he didn’t listen. Wanted to be Saint Stefan for Elena, as human as possible.”  
  
There’s a pause. “If he’s had only half of the blood bags we found? There’s no going back from that for a long time, not for Stefan. And those were just blood bags.” He points to the back of the car. “Those girls? That was the real deal, the thrill of the hunt, warm blood, a warm body in your arms…” He takes a deep breath, grinning at Alaric over the small space that’s separating them. “You should try it some time, you’ll never know what you’re missing…”  
  
Alaric laughs, but he sobers quickly. “Do  _you_ ever have the urge to rip people apart like that?”  
  
“I’m not a ripper, Ric, I don’t black out. I don’t know what I’d do if I did… Let’s hope we’ll never find out.” There’s the grin again, Damon’s teeth shining in the darkness.  
  
For a moment, for as long as Damon’s eyes flash like a cat’s in the streetlights, Alaric wonders. When it comes down to his best friend—with everything he has been through, everything he knows—is he just as naïve and blind as a certain doppelganger?  
  


~~~~*~~~~

  
The drive home is a long one. At some point they switch and Damon drives, while Alaric tries to doze off. He listens to the car's engine, to the music that is playing softly in the background, to the different sounds outside. Tries to let them lull him into sleep. He used to be able to fall asleep as soon as he sat down somewhere and closed his eyes. No matter where he was, no matter what was happening around him. It seems to be impossible these days.  
  
But he’s tired, and so he keeps his eyes closed and lets his mind drift, trying to think of nothing in particular.  
  
“Ric.”  
  
The voice comes from far away.  
  
“Ric, wake up.” There’s a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. “Alaric.”  
  
He opens his eyes, groaning in protest. It takes him a moment to realize he’s still in the car, slumped uncomfortably against the passenger’s door. His neck is stiff, protesting against any movement. “What…”  
  
“Are you with me finally?” Damon sounds weird, if he didn’t know better, he’d almost call it concerned.  
  
Alaric turns his head to the side with some difficulty. “What?”  
  
“What was that all about, were you having a nightmare or something?”  
  
It’s completely dark outside now and the road they are on is empty. Alaric can barely make out Damon’s profile through his blurry eyes. “What do you mean?” He sits up groggily, rubbing a hand over his face. “I wasn’t sleeping…”  
  
Damon looks at him for a moment. “You were sleeping, Ric, you were totally gone. And moaning. At first I thought you were having a really good dream, but that sounded… painful… I have no idea what’s going on in your head, was it the right kind of pain?”  
  
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Alaric insists, although he isn't really sure. “I don’t sleep much these days, can’t get my mind to shut up…”  
  
“You’ve been through a lot,” Damon says after a pause, uncharacteristically insightful. It’s a rare invitation to talk, but Alaric is just too tired to concentrate on what he does and doesn’t want to say.  
  
“I’m okay,” he says instead.  
  
Damon shrugs.  _Your choice, buddy_ .  
  
They are silent. For a moment.  
  
"So, about tomorrow..."  
  


~~~~*~~~~

  
“Ric, can I ask you a favor?”  
  
He looks up from the game he isn’t watching, turning on the couch. “What do you need?”  
  
Elena sighs, tries a half-grin. It doesn’t convince him.  
  
“I know Caroline has this birthday party planned for me next week. And I know you know and it’s supposed to be a surprise and everything…” She takes a deep breath, looking guilty. “Can you ask her to keep it simple? I don’t… I want… I don’t really want to celebrate and have a party, it wouldn’t feel right…”  
  
Alaric can’t suppress a grin. “It might be a little late for that, she’s planned a lot for it already, invitations are out and everything…”  
  
Elena’s face falls a little. “I thought so…” She pulls her jacket closer around her shoulders. “I know she means well, it’s just…” Elena breaks off, stares off into space, looking for words Alaric knows she won’t find.  
  
“They’ll understand, Elena. Whatever you do, they’ll understand.” He’s talking about the living and the dead, and Elena seems to understand him. She tries to smile again and this time it reaches her eyes.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
He watches her walk toward the stairs where she stops and looks at him over her shoulder. “Please don’t get me anything for my birthday, no presents, no cards—nothing okay? It’s… it’s nice enough that you’re here, it means a lot more than anything you could get me.”  
  
She’s upstairs before he can say anything, leaving him to stare at the stairs with a heavy heart.  
  
The same stairs Elena is now, five days later, descending while chatting on the phone. Alaric is standing in the kitchen, fighting to get the coffee machine to work for him, but giving up when he hears her voice. Elena is obviously talking to Caroline and she sounds… okay. Not as cheerful as you are supposed to be on your birthday, your 18th birthday for that matter, but not close to tears, either. She even smiles at him when she enters the kitchen, and then pushes him out of the way as she does something to the machine she’s explained a hundred times before, but that never works for him whenever he tries it.  
  
“… and I never said yes in the first place,” Elena says into the phone, rolling her eyes at Alaric in exasperation. He smiles back at her and goes over to the couch, starts straightening it.  
  
“Caroline—Caroline, wait, I don’t want—no, not that’s too—Caroline, please, don’t—“  
  
Another long-suffering sigh follows. Alaric can’t quite keep his amusement to himself and Elena glares at him.  
  
“Okay… Okay, Caroline, just… please keep tonight small, okay? Please…” She trials off, listens. Sighs. “Yeah, see you later.”  
  
Elena hangs up, grabs two mugs and pours some coffee.  
  
Alaric grins. “She’s not keeping it small, is she?”  
  
Elena rolls her eyes. “It sounds like a millennium party, too many people, too much booze, too much  _everything_ …” She walks over to the couch, handing him one of the cups. “I really don’t want to go…”  
  
“It doesn’t sound like you’re going to get out of this.”  
  
There’s a moment of silence, then Elena cocks her head slightly. “Are you sure you’re still okay on the couch?”  
  
Alaric straightens, taking a sip from his coffee. Too hot, too bitter. Normal. “Yeah, I’m good.”  
  
They’ve had this conversation again and again over the summer; she asks, he declines her next offer; it’s like a dance of some sorts, without the music, without the fun.  
  
“Because you spent half the summer on it. If you need your own bedroom?”  
  
Alaric shakes his head. “Sleeping in your dead parent’s room… or my dead girlfriend’s room…”  
  
He couldn’t do either, feels sick even thinking about it. He wouldn’t even be here if he still had a home.  
  
Elena doesn’t look happy, but she nods. As she always does. “Alright, got it.”  
  
He calls after her when she starts walking to the stairs. “Hey, Elena.”  
  
Elena turns and looks at him, looking as tired and miserable as he feels.  
  
“Happy Birthday.”  
  
For just a moment, she smiles. And she looks so much like the carefree girl he never really got to meet it makes his heart ache for what she’s lost.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“I have something for you.” Alaric holds up a hand before she can protest. “It’s not something I bought for you, I promise.” He pulls the small pendant out of his bag, holding it out to her. “I found this in my apartment the other day; I thought you might want it back.”  
  
Elena’s eyes are fixed on the locket dangling from the chain in Alaric’s hand. Alaric knows the story, that Stefan gave it to her as a token of his love, that it means a lot to her, to them. Giving it back to her, now, on this day and with what Damon and he found out yesterday feels… weird. He shouldn’t get her hopes up, shouldn’t pretend he still believes that Stefan will just come back and everything will be all right again.  
  
But it’s still her locket and they haven’t talked about how to tell her about what they had seen. And, right now, she needs something to cheer her up, if only for a little while.  
  
It works; Elena finally looks up at him and smiles, a real smile. “Thank you,” she says softly and comes back to the couch, reaching out for the pendant. She looks at it, looks up at him. “Thanks.”  
  
Alaric watches her head up the stairs and sinks down on the couch, sipping at his coffee.  
  
This is going to be a long day.  
  


~~~~*~~~~

  
It turns out he was right, it  _is_ a long day.  
  
Alaric has just finished dressing and getting himself presentable, when Caroline calls and asks him to pick up glasses and plates and bring them over to the boarding house where the party will take place. As soon as he gets out of the car he’s knee-deep in party decorations and various preparations. He helps a lot more than he originally signed up for. Damon joins them late in the afternoon, insists on taking out as many of the expensive carpets as they can remove, but doesn’t lift a finger to help. He’s gone after he declares the upper rooms off-limits.  
  
And then Alaric comes back out of the kitchen and the party has started.  
  
Caroline has  _not_ kept it small. There are people everywhere. The boarding house, big and spacious as it is, is crowded; you can’t make a step without running into people. Or falling over them.  
  
Caroline appears at his side suddenly, looking nervous. “She’s late,” she tells him, exasperated. “She’s late, she’s always late! It’s her birthday, it’s  _her_ party, why is she late?”  
  
Before he can say a word, she’s gone again, disappearing into a sea of even more people.  
  
He flees outside, finds a place to sit, close enough to keep an eye the living-room, but far away enough so that the music won’t deafen him. Watches kids he knows get drunk, a little shocked at how much alcohol most of them are able to drink and a lot ashamed that he just lets it happen. Doesn’t do anything against it.  
  
Damon finds him who knows how much later. “Now you look like a party pooper,” he grins, sitting down next to Alaric, pushing a glass of bourbon into Alaric’s hand.  
  
“I’m every parent’s worst nightmare,” Alaric moans, watching Michael Quinn, senior class, throw up into the bushes and then sway back into the house. “I’m the chaperone teacher from hell.”  
  
Damon chuckles, raises his own glass in a toast. “I like high school parties.”  
  
“Isn't Andie supposed to be coming?”  
  
“Ten o’clock broadcast, she should be here in a little bit…”  
  
Alaric looks up when Elena suddenly comes rushing out, looking annoyed.  
  
“Hello birthday girl,” Damon grins. Elena ignores him, takes Damon’s glass right out of his hand.  
  
“Jeremy’s smoking again,” she says, clearly upset.  
  
Alaric groans inwardly, this is bad news. And it’s even worse he didn’t notice it before Elena did. Some guardian he is—  
  
“Is his stash any good?”  
  
Elena glares at Damon. “You’re an ass.” She turns to look at Alaric, her eyes pleading with him. “Talk to him, please. He looks up to you.”  
  
Before he can voice the protest that is on his lips, Elena thrusts the glass back at Damon and stalks away.  
  
Damon winks at him, grinning broader than ever. “You’re screwed.”  
  
Alaric can’t argue against that.  
  
Together they watch the kids get steadily drunker. Alaric is torn between stepping in and stopping the party altogether or just pretending it’s not as bad as it looks.  
  
Damon’s phone beeps and he fishes it out of his pocket to read a text message. “Andie wants me to pick her up.”  
  
Alaric snorts in amusement. “Your fake, compelled girlfriend wants you to be a chivalrous boyfriend.” If it wasn’t such a tragedy, it would almost be funny. Almost.  
  
“Well, it's a complicated dynamic.” Damon gets up, looking around. “Hold the fort down, will you?”  
  
Alaric sighs. “You mean the fort full of my drunk history students?”  
  
Damon grins. As usual. “Drink more, you’ll feel less weird.”  
  


~~~~*~~~~

  
Damon never comes back that night. Or, if he comes back, Alaric doesn’t see him. Which means it’s up to Alaric to finally put an end to the party and send the kids home. It takes him two long,  _long_ hours to shoo the last happily grinning student out of the house. Alaric gets slapped on the back a lot, called every variation of his name from ‘Mr. Ric’ to ‘Salty’ he can imagine and grins a lot. He tries to keep an eye on the driving situation, pulls at least four completely smashed students out of their cars and confiscates their keys. Caroline and Damon, who were both supposed to help him, never show up and Elena seems to be gone as well.  
  
The place stinks. And it’s a mess.  
  
And not his problem, not tonight.  
  
Alaric is so tired he even contemplates crashing on the couch, but the smell drives him from the boarding house. He decides to stop at his own place on the way to the Gilbert house, needs to pick up a few things for the next couple of days. He spends several minutes standing outside his apartment, looking up at his windows from the street. He avoids coming back here; it doesn’t feel like his own flat anymore, after everything that’s happened here it feels more like a battlefield than an actual home.  
  
When he opens the door he expects to be hit by the same weird smell that had driven him from the place in the past. There’d been blood, everywhere, on the floor, the counter, in the glasses. It had been a bitch to clean out and he couldn’t shake the stench of it for days.  
  
His place doesn’t stink. The air smells a little stale, like he’s been away for a week and nobody opened the windows—but that’s it. Something has changed; something is different from the last time he was here. He can’t put his finger on it and stays in the open door, one hand on the knob, the other raised to turn on the light. Waiting for the, by now, familiar feeling of  _this-is-not-your-place-anymore_  to settle between his shoulder blades—but it doesn’t happen, there’s nothing, no weird feeling at the back of his neck, no hair standing on end, nothing. He must be a lot more drunk than he thought, his senses dulled and failing. For once the apartment feels normal. Like nothing out of the ordinary has ever happened here.  
  
It’s weird and wrong, and at the same time it’s what he wants since he needs to move back here, he can’t stay at the Gilbert house forever. Alaric takes a slow step into the apartment, lets the door fall closed behind him with a soft click. Moonlight is falling through the windows and as his eyes adjust to the semi-darkness, he lets his gaze wander across the familiar room.  
  
Alaric feels safe, for the first time since this nightmare began two months ago he feels at peace here. He closes his eyes, just for a moment, lets himself sink back against the closed door, enjoying the familiar atmosphere around him. His body relaxes, the tension in his neck easing, causing his shoulders to become heavy, like his whole body is trying to drag him down, to find some place to finally get some rest. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, running his hands through his hair.  
  
“I need to sleep,” he says to the empty room, surprising himself with how tired his voice sounds. He’s dimly aware that he sits down on his bed a moment later, thinks about sending Elena a message to let her know where he is.  
  
He’s still thinking about it when he falls asleep a few heartbeats later.  
  


~~~~*~~~~

  
Alaric is out like a light. He doesn’t wake up in the night, he doesn’t lie awake for what feels like hours, he doesn’t feel like crap when he wakes up the next morning. He wakes up gradually, enjoys the sunlight warming his skin, listens to familiar sounds that tickle his awareness until he opens his eyes, slowly, squinting into the light. He fell asleep in his clothes, with his shoes and his jacket still on—and he wants a shower.   
  
He starts the day slowly. The first cup of his own coffee tastes like heaven, not too bitter, not too hot. Perfect. He’s missed this, a lot, he’s missed waking up in his own place, having no one to look after but himself. Being able to just lean back and go through his mail, read the newspaper and relax. Have nowhere to go, nothing to do, just some time to himself.   
  
His back is no longer hurting. The couch he’s been sleeping on all summer has really done a number on it, it’s the first day in weeks he hasn’t woken up with his neck all cramped up and that uncomfortable pull between his shoulder blades.   
  
All in all he feels good.   
  
Until his cell phone goes off. It takes him a moment to fish it out of his jeans and he pulls a face when he reads the caller name. Damon.   
  
"Yeah?"   
  
"Where the hell are you?" Damon doesn’t sound happy, quite the opposite to be exact.   
  
"Home," Alaric answers, taking a sip of his perfect coffee. "What's up?"   
  
"What's up? The place is a mess, you were supposed to help me with this, remember?"   
  
Okay, this is more than not happy, Damon is pissed. And it’s definitely not about the place, that much Alaric can easily tell from his friend’s tone.   
  
“You okay?”   
  
“I’m fucking peachy, get your ass over here, it stinks.” Just like that, the line is cut.   
  
That was a little intense, even for Damon on a bad day. Something big must have happened, something Damon doesn’t want to talk about on the phone.   
  
Alaric takes a deep breath, looking around his place with a heavy heart. Fully awake now, he remembers exactly how wrong it had felt to be here the last time. Like the place didn’t belong to him, like he had no right to be here. Like he had been intruding on someone else’s’ territory. Compared to how he feels now, it’s like waking up from a bad dream, as if he’s finally shaken off a lingering feeling of dread that has only been there in his imagination.   
  
He doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay, go back to bed. Sleep for a day. Not think about anything more complicated than “what do I like for breakfast again?”. Just shut out reality for a moment and find himself again. Get a rest, remember who he is and what he wants of his life.   
  
He doesn’t stay. He gets up, gets dressed. Packs a few things and leaves the apartment.   
  


~~~~*~~~~

  
Damon is in the living-room, throwing paper cups into a plastic bag. All windows are open wide, light and air streaming in through them—but it doesn’t really help with the strong smell in the room. Spilled alcohol and… other stuff Alaric doesn’t want to get too close to. The room is a mess, open bottles, paper plates on every surface available, pieces of the horribly pink birthday cake smeared over the couches, on the floor, paper cups sitting in the middle of spilled wine on one of the tables, the various bowls decorated with candles and… other stuff…  
  
Oh it was a party, all right.  
  
Alaric slowly walks into the room, shrugging out of his jacket, grinning. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”  
  
The dark scowl on Damon’s face quickly sobers him up.  
  
“Very funny.”  
  
Damon is so tense it seems only one wrong word will set him off. Alaric decides that slow is the way to go with him right now, keeping his voice deliberately neutral. “Where were you last night, you were supposed to help me send the kids home?"  
  
"I was a little busy trying to save my fake compelled girlfriend from my off-the-rails dickhead of a brother." Damon sounds so matter-of-fact it actually takes Alaric a moment to get what he’s saying.  
  
"Stefan was here?"  
  
Damon continues throwing trash into the bag, never once meeting Alaric’s eyes. "Stefan sent me a message, compelled her off a high-stage to teach me a lesson. I'm supposed to leave him alone, to let him go."  
  
Damon is pissed… and shocked. Hurting. Alaric has seen him like this before, when Rose died. When Damon had mentioned that in passing and then immediately changed the subject. He straightens, eyes on Damon, the house—the chaos forgotten.  
  
“How is she? Did he—“  
  
“She’s dead. Broke her neck.” Matter of fact. Again. Still doesn’t fool Alaric, not for a second.  
  
There’s a moment of silence. Alaric should say something, but everything he can think of, will come out wrong.  
  
 _I’m sorry_  doesn't mean anything. But he is.  
  
 _You should have seen it coming_ . Because Damon should have, they both should have.  
  
 _It’s your fault, you dragged her into this, you_ kept  _her in this_ . It’s true and Damon knows this. Better than anyone. Just like Alaric knows Damon never meant for her to get hurt. Or killed. But not wanting something to happen doesn’t keep people safe.  
  
Alaric is thinking too much and the moment is over.  
  
“At least we’ll find out who’ll report her death now,” Damon says, all false cheeriness, and stalks off into the adjoining room, getting a second plastic bag. “You finish the living-room, I’ll be upstairs cleaning the mess the kids made in the places  _someone_ forgot to keep them away from.”  
  
And then he’s gone. Leaving Alaric alone in a room that looks pretty much as bad as he’s feeling right now.


	3. I howl when we're apart

  
_  
_

  
  


  
_There’s a soft sound, a low growl, rumbling deep in Klaus’s chest, barely audible over the rushing in Alaric’s ears. It’s not meant to intimidate. Or to scare him. It’s something else, something completely different from what the whole situation seems to imply. He’s never heard a sound like this before—and for some reason that will never make sense to him he suddenly has to fight the ridiculously strong urge to roll his head to the side and bare his throat._

~~~~~*~~~~~

  
  
It's like being on vacation.  
  
Alaric has stayed in his own apartment for a couple of days and, so far, it’s been a quiet, uneventful time. When he goes out to go grocery shopping he sees the same streets of the same town, meets the same people he always meets… and still it feels different. In a good way. When he is home, he sleeps. Wakes up, stays awake for some time, doing nothing, goes to sleep again. Gets some rest. Watches TV and dozes off in front of it. He’s probably more asleep than awake, but he craves the rest, more than he does food at the moment, and so he gives in. Doesn’t fight it whenever his eyes grow heavy and he can feel himself start to relax.  
  
At some point he even starts to dream again. He never remembers what exactly his dreams are about. But they don’t wake him up in the middle of the night, he doesn’t come awake screaming or with his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest anymore.  
  
He doesn’t see Elena for almost a week. She calls him occasionally, checks in to make sure he’s okay.  
  
“Look, Ric—I understand. You deserve a break from me, from _us_. We’re fine. You just… you just relax and get some rest and we’ll be fine.”  
  
He believes her.  
  
But he’s also not deaf or dumb. He does hear the awkward silences, how she takes a breath as if she is about to say something—but stops. Doesn’t say it. Not that she needs to, he knows.  
  
 _Don’t stay away forever. We need you. We can’t do this on our own, not forever._  
  
He won’t.  
  
But he does need this break and he enjoys it to the fullest.  
  
Until there’s a knock on his door one morning, pulling him out of a deep sleep.  
  
He knows that knock. Annoying and persistent. Too loud to ignore. And too early to not be important. Or whatever a certain someone deems important.  
  
"Go away, Damon!"  
  
The knocking doesn’t stop—of course it doesn’t stop, Damon just doesn’t know when to quit and Alaric’s not really expecting the knocking to stop—so he gets up and stumbles to the door. Tries to think up some adequate curse to throw into Damon’s face about how this is not the right time of the day to come bothering him with whatever it is that he’s not interested in. He opens the door, words about to tumble from his mouth—  
  
It’s not Damon.  
  
“You’re not who I expected.”  
  
Elena gives him a pointed look and Alaric is suddenly very aware that he’s just answered the door with his pants hanging open and no shirt on. He backs away from the door, starts buttoning up, trying to hide his surprise. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“I need you to tell me what you know about Stefan and Tennessee.”  
  
Great, so Damon’s finally told her something. He rolls his eyes, barely holds back a curse.  
  
 _A warning would have been nice, asshole._  
  
"Elena, I don't think this is a good idea."  
  
Elena doesn’t listen; she steps inside the apartment, turns to meet his eyes. Wearing that face, the one that tells him she’s determined to find out everything he knows. It’s almost a glare.  
  
“Whatever Damon knows, you know. I need to know what happened.”  
  
He follows her into the kitchen, pulling over a shirt. "Why don't you ask Damon then?"  
  
 _Now_ it's a glare.  
  
"Well, Damon's not exactly in the mood to help right now." Elena uses his name like a swearword and stalks over to the counter in the kitchen area.  
  
Alaric feels the familiar beginning of a headache pound behind his eyes. This will end in a disaster if he can’t talk her down. “Elena, you weren’t there, what we saw—it’s not safe for you, okay?” He turns his back to her, busies himself with his coffee-machine to not have to look at her right now. “Stefan’s off the rails.”  
  
Elena is silent. “He's holding on to his humanity," she says finally, voice soft and hesitant, sounding not as convinced as he knows she would like to. "And if he is it means he still can be saved."  
  
"Elena..." Alaric sighs, steels himself, turns back. Meets large, dark, _hopeful_ eyes. "What I saw... there was no humanity in that." She winces. "It was awful. And if he is capable of doing something like this... I just don’t know if there’s any getting back from it.”  
  
The words hurt her, more than she would like to show, more than she can hide behind her determined look. “I'm gonna save him."  
  
Alaric pinches the bridge of his nose, tries to get rid of images of Stefan tearing people apart with his bare hands. People who suddenly have long, brown hair and doe eyes that have already seen too much. "Why do you have to be the one to save him?"  
  
He knows the answer, of course.  
  
 _Because I love him._  
  
He’s been there, he’s been through the same thing. The night Isobel walked back into his life. When he realized she was a vampire now and lay awake for hours, thinking. Wondering if it was possible to get his wife back. Or, at least, an undead version of her. Wondering if he could do that, be with her like this. He’d seen it work with Stefan and Elena; despite the supernatural crap about doppelgangers and rituals life kept throwing at them they seemed happy together. They made it work, somehow.  
  
He and Isobel never made it, and he knows, now, that it was for the best.  
  
Elena, though, is still fighting for Stefan. She looks exactly like he felt back then, miserable yet hopeful.  
  
“Stefan would never give up on me. Never.”  
  
It’s true, Stefan, in his right mind, wouldn’t. Alaric would never doubt that. But the problem is, that his mind doesn’t seem right. And it’s Alaric’s job to keep Elena safe.  
  
“He’s not himself anymore.”  
  
“I’ll get him back. Ric, please, tell me what you know. Please.” There are her eyes again, big, pleading, so hopeful it breaks his heart.  
  
Alaric sighs. Picks up his cup of perfect coffee, doesn’t drink it. Just looks at her. “They’ve been tracking werewolves, he and Klaus. All over the eastern seaboard.” He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “We thought we had them outside of Memphis, but we never saw them. There was a family, relatives of a werewolf. They had a hidden room in their house with chains, claw marks on the walls.”  
  
 _Plates laid out on the table in the kitchen, a bottle of Coke opened, a glass half-full…_  
  
"Did they know where Stefan and Klaus went? Could they tell you anything?"  
  
… _vegetables cut on the on the counter, the knife next to them, a magazine open in front of a chair—peaceful…_  
  
 _Normal._  
  
Alaric closes his eyes, tries to shake off the memories. "They were dead, Elena. Stefan killed them.”  
  
Her gaze, determined and calm, wavers a little, disbelief darkening her features. “How do you know it was Stefan? If Klaus was there—“  
  
 _There’s a reason they call him the ripper—he feels remorse—he put the bodies back together—_  
  
Alaric holds up a hand. "Look, just believe me, okay? It _was_ Stefan, Damon could tell it was him. You really don't need to know the details."  
  
He must look as miserable as he feels, because Elena backs down after a moment. "Okay. Okay, Stefan killed those people—and then? Did you find out more?"  
  
Alaric shakes his head. "No, just that they are after werewolves."  
  
"So he's planning to raise his army."  
  
The big master plan, Klaus and his plan of creating a hybrid army. "It looks like it."  
  
Instead of shocked, Elena looks thoughtful. Looks up. “I think I know where we have to go.”  
  
Alaric must have heard wrong. “Go? What—“  
  
He has no idea what exactly happened, but suddenly Elena is full of energy. “Look, if they are looking for werewolves, maybe we should look for werewolves, too. And I know a good place to start.”  
  
 _Sweet Jesus,_ this can’t be happening. “Elena…”  
  
Elena reaches across the counter, takes the cup out of his hand, takes a sip. Scrunches her nose. “Come on, Ric, they have _real_ coffee at the Grill, how can you even drink this?”  
  
And this is how Alaric finds himself sitting at the Grill only a few minutes later with a cup of ‘real’ coffee cradled in his hands. It smells fantastic, tastes even better, and still he would rather have his own right now.  
  
Elena is talking to Tyler and they are sitting at one of the tables close to the door. She had been uncharacteristically silent on the short drive and Alaric is starting to worry. Silent with Elena usually means she’s up to something.  
  
He doesn’t have to wait long, Elena slides onto the stool next to him before he can finish his drink. "Did you get anything?"  
  
Elena smiles, a small spark lighting up her eyes. He hasn’t seen her looking this _alive_ in weeks. "How do you feel about a little hike through the Smoky Mountains?"  
  
He stares. Runs over the details he has picked up so far. "You want to hunt down a pack of werewolves _on a full moon_?"  
  
"We'll be out of there before the moon is full."  
  
Alaric shakes his head in amazement, she has obviously not thought this through, there is no way he’s going to let her do something this—  
  
"If you don't come with me, I'm going by myself."  
  
Alaric is too stunned to say anything. Hopes, for just a second, that he’s dreaming and that this is the first nightmare he’s had in days. “Elena…”  
  
She flips her hair back, eyes determined, fixed on his. “Ric. You can't hold me back. I'll go, with or without you."  
  
Alaric shakes his head. Runs his hand through his hair. Closes his eyes. Calls himself all kinds of names. Shakes his head again.  
  
What choice does he have?  
  
“All right. Let’s just… let’s just go, let me pick up some things from my place…”  
  


~~~~*~~~~

  
  
Elena is waiting in the car while Alaric collects some of his weapons to go on a werewolf hunt. Meeting. Whatever.  
  
The first thing he does, as soon as the door closes behind him, is call Damon. To say that his friend doesn’t take the news lightly would be the understatement of the century.  
  
"She _what_? Are you nuts? How can you agree to this? How can you go with her? This is suicide!"  
  
"I didn’t _agree_ to anything, she left me no choice! She’s determined to go, with or without me. You think you can hold her back? Be my fucking guest, Damon, I wish you good luck with that!”  
  
There’s a dull crash in the background and Alaric knows Damon has just kicked some furniture. Or thrown something against a wall. “Can you please calm down and _think_? I have to get back to her before she takes off on her own.”  
  
Damon takes a deep breath. “All right, go with her, I'll find you."  
  
Alaric stands in the middle of his apartment packing for something he has no idea how to handle. Hiking through the woods with a stubborn doppelganger and a pissed vampire. To look for a pack of werewolves. On a full moon.  
  
How do you prepare for that?  
  


~~~~*~~~~

  
  
"Promise me something."  
  
They are following a trail deeper into the woods. The weather is great, it’s warm, sunny, birds singing all around them, the perfect day for a trek like this. And if they weren’t on the look for potentially dangerous werewolves—on a full moon, he can’t stress that often enough—Alaric would actually enjoy the workout. It feels good to be outside, to be moving, breathing fresh air. He should definitely do this more often.  
  
Elena is a little out of breath, definitely not used to exercise like this, but she’s trudging on determinedly. Now she’s looking at him, brushing hair out of her face. “What?”  
  
Alaric stops walking, because this is important, he needs to get his point across. "Promise to listen to me, okay? If I say run, you run. If things go bad, don't get yourself killed because you want to save Stefan. If he's there and he acts weird—Elena, I saw what he can do.” He lets his words sink in, then goes on when he senses she’s about to protest. “He killed Andie. He _knew_ Andie. If Damon's right and he's dangerous you have to—Elena, promise me that you won’t do something stupid.”  
  
He can see it in her eyes, she is conflicted. Sorry about Andie, shocked about what Stefan has done—but she’s made up her mind, she’s going to save him, no matter what. “I promise I won’t do something stupid.” She grins, looks around. “Something even more stupid. I promise to run when you tell me.”  
  
She means it, he knows she means it. Probably even believes it to be true, that she’ll be able to keep her word. He looks at her for a long moment, wills her to realize what she’s just said.  
  
“All right…”  
  
Alaric takes out his map, looks around, checks his compass. Damon should be joining them soon, Alaric is not really sure how he’s going to find them, but he will. Alaric straightens, points ahead. “In a couple of hours the full moon’s gonna rise just above that ridge. If Tyler's right, that's where the pack'll be."  
  
Elena walks past him, turns to look at him with a grin. “You were a boy scout, weren’t you? A boy scout slash vampire slayer?”  
  
“Slash whiskey-drinking all-around lost cause,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. He puts his bag down, kneeling next to it. Elena looks over his shoulder, eyeing the small arsenal he’s brought along.  
  
“Wow, you came stocked.” Again he realizes she has no idea at all just what she is getting them into. He takes a deep breath, bites his tongue to not start another lecture of how they really, really shouldn’t be here.  
  
“Well, we aren’t exactly bird-watching.” He takes out a grenade, holding it up to her. “Here, put that in your bag.”  
  
She looks at it from all sides, curious. "Is that one of your vervain grenades?"  
  
"Wolfsbane." He has no idea if it works like vervain does for vampires, if the grenade will even faze the wolves, but it’s better than nothing.  
  
When he looks up, Elena is going through her smaller bag as well. “Since we’re exchanging gifts…” She takes something small out of the bag, holds it out to him. “Take it.”  
  
"That's John Gilbert's ring." He remembers the last time saw this, the look on John's face, his own anger at how the other man was playing him. He had never expected to see it again.  
  
"It was yours once," Elena explains, gets a step closer. "Go ahead, take it. It'll protect you from whatever supernatural danger we're about to get ourselves into."  
  
He is relieved that she's thought this at least half way through, but he just can't... He can’t take it. “He gave it to you."  
  
Elena rolls her eyes. "Yeah, but I'm a doppelganger. It's not gonna work on me." She hesitates. "He left if for if I ever have kids."  
  
"Then why don't you save it for future generations of stubborn, relentless baby Gilberts?"  
  
He's a little surprised at how much he doesn’t want to take it back, it's not _his_ anymore. The ring means Isobel, his past, like it’s somehow catching up with him again. He’s worked so hard to leave her and all his conflicting feelings for her in the past, and now it’s back, right in front of him. Literally within touching distance.  
  
He doesn’t want it back, any of it.  
  
Elena takes another step closer, still holding the ring up. She looks pleading now. "How 'bout you borrow it until we survive this?" Something flashes through her eyes, something like fear. "I'd feel bad if I got you killed before happy hour."  
  
It's supposed to be a joke, but he sees the truth behind it: She's afraid of losing him.  
  
And she's right, as much as he hates it, she's right. It's suicide to be out here and do what they are doing, but it's even dumber to not take every advantage they have. He stares hard at the ring for a moment, then takes it from her hand, puts it on. Feels the familiar weight on his finger. Tries to ignore how much he hates it.  
  
Elena, on the other hand, seems relieved, she takes a step closer to the cliff and talks over her shoulder. "I don't know why you think you're a lost cause—"  
  
A shadow rushes past him, and Elena goes flying, falls down the small cliff with a loud yell. Alaric has his crossbow up—too late—pointing it at the figure that’s now standing in Elena’s place, looking down.  
  
At Damon, dressed in black.  
  
It takes all Alaric’s concentration to not give in to his instincts and just shoot his friend where he stands.  
  
“Jesus Christ, _Damon_!” His voice is shaking almost as much as he is.  
  
Damon ignores him, his back to him, still looking down at Elena. Who is getting to her feet, soaking wet, her long hair plastered to her skull and over her back like a second skin. She looks up at them with wide eyes, but as soon as she sees Damon she starts glaring again.  
  
“Damon! How are you even here?”  
  
Damon leans back, looks at Alaric, a satisfies smirk crossing his face. "Thanks for the tip, brother."  
  
He grimaces, but takes a step closer. Looks calmly at Elena who's, of course, glaring at him now, too. "You sold me out!"  
  
Alaric sighs. "You think I'd take you to a mountain range of werewolves on a full moon without backup?"  
  
"Get out of the water, Elena."  
  
Elena crosses her arms in front of her chest. Looking for all the world like a pouting teen. Which is exactly what she is. "If I get out of the water, you're gonna make me go home."  
  
Damon rolls his eyes. "Yes, because I'm not an idiot. Like you."  
  
It’s like watching two kids at kindergarten. "Right now you're _both_ acting like idiots."  
  
They don’t listen, Elena glares at Damon, her voice rising in accusation. "You gave up on him, Damon. You don't wanna save him anymore."  
  
Damon tenses, flexes his shoulder. Starts walking toward the water. "I didn't give up on him, Elena. I faced reality. Now get out of the water."  
  
"No!"  
  
Damon walks right into the water, stopping in front of Elena. "What's your big plan, Elena? Huh? You gonna walk through a campsite for of werewolves, roast a marshmallow and wait for Stefan to stop by?"  
  
"My plan is to find him and help him. Damon, this is the closest that we've been to him since he left. I'm not going home."  
  
Damon looks as if he is fighting back the impulse to just grab her and drag her back to land. "Klaus thinks you died when he broke the curse. That makes you safe." He throws his arms to the side, indicating the forest around them. "This, this is not safe."  
  
It's not going to work, Alaric knows this before Elena shakes her head, takes a step back. Stubborn as always. "I'm not leaving before we find him."  
  
"It's a full moon tonight, Elena. The pack sees me and they'll rip me apart. Or you."  
  
"Then we'll find him before that."  
  
Alaric sighs. She's won, he already knows that, Damon's gonna fold, just like him. He knows it.  
  
"Damon, please."  
  
Damon shakes his head, and Alaric knows exactly what his friend is thinking right now. _How do I get myself into situations like this?_  
  
"Okay. But we are out of here before the moon is full and I'm werewolf bait."  
  
Elena nods, but Alaric knows she would agree to anything right now. "I promise."  
  
"Elena, I mean it, I don't have another brother to spare for a cure." Damon turns and walks out of the water, not looking back at her.  
  
"I said I promise!"  
  
Alaric sighs and picks up his bag, joining them at the bank. Elena climbs out of the water, dripping water everywhere. "Did you really have to push me in there?"  
  
"I was making a point." Damon stares at her without batting an eyelid. "I could have been a werewolf, I could have attacked you, just like that. You’d be dead, just like that.” He mimics breaking something with his hands. A neck. Alaric’s stomachs turns cold, Damon is right. He never saw him coming; he wouldn’t have been able to protect her.  
  
"That's how fast you could have been werewolf- chow, Elena. And Ric would have been dead as well."  
  
That shuts her up. Elena stares at Damon for a long moment, then turns and walks away. Not once looking back.  
  
Alaric wants to say something like _that was a bit harsh_ or _you didn’t need to put it like that_ , but Damon is right.  
  
God, he hates it when Damon is right…  
  


~~~~*~~~~

  
  
They’ve been walking for over an hour when Alaric stops to check his map again. "We got about a mile left."  
  
Damon, who is walking before him, looks at the sky. "The sun's about to set," he says and Alaric can _hear_ Elena's eye roll.  
  
"I can see that, Damon."  
  
"I'm just saying," Damon singsongs in typical Damon fashion.  
  
"The moon doesn't reach its apex for a while. We have time." Elena again, sounding way too sure of herself.  
  
A twig snaps, somewhere to their right. Slow steps shuffle closer, then a figure steps out from between the bushes. The man looks like he has been in a car accident, run over at least twice. He is bleeding from his eyes, from his nose, from his mouth. His hair is a mess, his clothes are torn and bloody. He walks slowly, looks more like a zombie than a human being, arms hanging loosely at his sides as if he doesn’t have any strength left anymore.  
  
All that changes the moment the man becomes aware of them. He tenses, straightens, looks at them. Fixes his gaze on Damon, as if it's drawn there.  
  
"Stay where you are," Alaric says, pointing his crossbow at the man, but he doesn't react, doesn't even look at the weapon.  
  
"Vampire." It's a growl, barely recognizable as actual speech.  
  
And then all hell breaks loose.  
  
The man is fast, so fast Alaric is still staring at where he was standing when Damon is thrown against a tree a few feet away. Elena cries out in shock, moves forward. Alaric holds her back, pushes her behind him, tries to get a clear shot at the growling man. The arrow hits the stranger in the back and he howls in pain, but he doesn’t let go of Damon. Instead his struggles increase and he tries to get closer to Damon’s throat.  
  
“Damon!”  
  
Elena pulls something out of her bag and throws it over to Damon. A moment later the grenade explodes, spraying water and wolfsbane everywhere. The effect is instantaneous; the man cries out again and starts clawing at his face, staggers away from Damon, groaning. Damon kicks him hard in the stomach and the man collapses to the ground, out cold. Damon pulls the arrow out of his back, then rolls him onto his back with a boot, studying him.  
  
"Damon, are you okay?"  
  
Damon ignores Elena and leans down to drag the man toward a tree to his feet. "Ric, get the ropes, I don't know how long he’ll be out."  
  
Alaric takes the ropes out of the bag, walking over to help Damon tie the man to the tree. Elena hovers in the background, nervous.  
  
"He's a werewolf, right? That's why he went after you?"  
  
"I think," Damon huffs, ducking beneath the rope Alaric is looping around the man and the tree. "Or he was just angry I’m better looking than him."  
  
They work quickly, securing the stranger to the tree. Before long, he starts moving, straining against the bonds. Damon curses.  
  
"These ropes aren't gonna hold him," he says. "He's too strong for them, what else do we have?"  
  
From behind them Elena says, “Ric, here, take these.”  
  
Damon reaches out for whatever she hands over, then yelps, yanking his hand back. “ _Ow_!”  
  
“I said Ric!”  
  
“Why did you put vervain on it? He’s a werewolf!”  
  
“Because we have nothing else left, it’s all we have!”  
  
It’s not enough, it won’t work.  
  
“That’s the last rope… We don’t have enough stuff to hold him—Elena, I don’t think we’re gonna make it to that ridge before the full moon…” They won’t, not if they want to get back to the car before the full moon, the whole trek is taking them too long. They need to get out of here, they need to go. To leave.  
  
Now.  
  
“If we can get him to talk, we don’t have to.” Elena sounds so convinced, so sure of herself.  
  
She takes a step toward the bound werewolf—and Alaric steps between them, can’t hold himself back, he doesn’t want her close to that man.  
  
“Get back,” he growls.  
  
“Ric—“  
  
Before Elena can protest, the man’s eyes suddenly snap open and he starts screaming at the top of his lungs. He throws his head back, knocking it into the tree behind him—and starts twisting in the bonds, his body contorting as much as it can—  
  
“Jesus Christ, is he _turning_?”  
  
“It’s impossible, it’s still _daylight_!”  
  
“Tell him that,” Alaric growls, watching as Damon pins the man against the tree at his shoulders. Even bound as he is, Damon’s strength is barely enough to hold him back. It won’t be long until the werewolf breaks free.  
  
“There aren’t supposed to be werewolves out there until the moon is full.” Elena sounds frantic now.  
  
“We need to go,” Alaric picks up his bag. “We need to go, the ropes aren’t gonna hold a wolf, we need to leave! _Now_! ” He hates running from this, but he can’t protect them both, not against this… _thing_.  
  
They run.  
  


~~~~*~~~~

  
  
Once the sun sets, it gets dark really fast in the woods. It's a matter of half an hour, maybe less.  
  
They are running back the way they came, Damon in the lead. Alaric has lost his compass, but they are heading roughly in the right direction and so he doesn’t question Damon’s way, doesn’t think much besides the fact that coming here was a stupid thing to do. They need to get away, they need to get Elena out of here, she’s in danger. She shouldn’t be here; she needs to be as far away as possible.  
  
The man—the wolf is hunting them now. He can feel it, like a hot breath crawling down his neck, urging him to run faster, even though he knows they can’t outrun it. They are not fast enough, he and Elena can barely see where they’re running in the twilight, and soon the remaining light will be gone, practically blinding them. They will never make it out of the woods alive, especially not now that the forest starts working against them, making them stumble over roots they no longer see or causing them to slip on damp leaves.  
  
But still, they run on, dashing through bushes as fast as the fading light allows.  
  
Elena begins to tire, her movements becoming more and more awkward by the minute. She’s running out of breath, leans heavily against a tree as they stop briefly at a junction.  
  
“I need a minute,” she gasps, fighting to get enough air into her lungs.  
  
“We don’t have a minute,” Damon huffs back, starts moving again, but at a slightly slower pace, looking back at them. “Come on, we need to go.”  
  
Alaric catches up with Elena and grabs her hand, pulling her away from the tree. “We need to keep going,” he says, urging her along the small path.  
  
For once, she doesn’t argue and he is grateful for that.  
  
A sound cuts through the night, shivering down his back like a cold breeze, a long, haunting howl close—too close—to them. It’s a call for others to join, an invitation to share the ecstasy of the hunt, the thrill of victory. A promise to share the prey.  
  
The call stays unanswered, but their pursuer doesn’t give up the hunt, he’s getting closer, should be _with_ them already, they are too slow—  
  
Elena stumbles, cries out, and goes down hard. Alaric reaches out to help her up—  
  
“Don’t move.” Damon’s voice is low, tense.  
  
It's here.  
  
The wolf is behind Alaric, so close he can hear it panting, hear the growl that rumbles through its chest, so close he can feel its hot breath creep over the fabric of his jeans. Alaric freezes in shock, doesn’t dare to move, his pulse hammering so hard in his veins his skin starts to tingle.  
  
“Oh my god…” Elena’s small voice is barely audible and her hand trembles in his grasp.  
  
Alaric turns, slowly.  
  
It’s a huge beast. Shaggy fur, as dark as the night, standing on end. Yellow eyes gleam in the moonlight, their feral gaze locked on something behind Alaric. Foam gathering at the snout, the werewolf holds his body stiff, sinking to the ground, muscles bunch to pounce—  
  
A loud growl echoes through the night, wild and vicious.  
  
The wolf… hesitates, flattens its ears against its head.  
  
Takes a slow step back, moving almost in slow-motion. It keeps moving, its posture changes, turns into a respectful crouch. Some of the tension leaves the shaggy body, but the wolf stays cautious, doesn’t take its gleaming eyes off the man before it.  
  
Watching his every move.  
  
Alaric takes a step toward it… and the wolf takes a step back, turns its head to the side.  
  
“No.”  
  
It’s said in a low voice, determined. Commanding.  
  
 _You will not attack them._  
  
The wolf backs off, another step.  
  
Still looking at him.  
  
Waiting.  
  
"Get her out of here." Alaric doesn't take his eyes off the wolf, but he is talking to the people behind him.  
  
"What the fuck are you doing?"  
  
As soon as Damon’s voice sounds, the wolf tenses, jerks around, body going stiff in alarm, getting ready to jump—  
  
"No." Says it just like before.  
  
 _Back. Off._  
  
The wolf obeys.  
  
"Ric..." Elena breathes behind him.  
  
"Go, get out," he hears himself say, voice calm. Sharp contrast to his heart beating so fast in his chest it _hurts_.  
  
"I'm not leaving you here—" Elena starts to protest, but he needs her to _shut the fuck up_ for once and _listen_.  
  
“Remember what you promised, Elena, _run_. I have the ring, _leave_!”  
  
Damon hisses something, maybe it's a curse, maybe it's an insult. A plea to join them, Alaric doesn't listen. Doesn't care. All he hears is them taking off at top speed—vampire speed—and their movements are swallowed by the night.  
  
And he is left, locked in a stare down with a werewolf under a full moon. With no fucking idea what has just happened or what he is supposed to do now.  
  
To look away now would be fatal and so he stares back. Watches as the creature becomes braver. Curls its lips and displays its teeth again, a challenge. He doesn’t return the gesture, but he stands up straighter, makes himself taller.  
  
The wolf flattens its ears against his head, issues a growl, a deep, wild sound coming from the depths of his chest. Meant to intimidate him, to scare him.  
  
Alaric growls back.  
  
It sounds weird to his own ears, not wolfish—but also not entirely human either, something weird and in between. For a moment the wolf almost looks as if it can’t decide whether to be impressed or amused.  
  
Alaric doesn't know how long they stand there, staring at each other. Locked in a weird dance-like back and forth of threat and calculation. Trying to gauge the other’s strength. They are an uneven match, he wouldn’t stand the slightest chance against the wolf if it decided to attack him—but it doesn’t. Something is keeping it back, something he doesn’t understand.  
  
"Impressive."  
  
The calm voice takes him completely by surprise.  
  
It’s a reflex, Alaric whirls around to look behind him, even though his brain is screaming frantically at him to not take his eyes off the—  
  
Something barrels into his back with the force of a freight train. He goes down hard, crashing to the ground. A searing pain rips through his back, taking his breath away. Claws pull at his skin, tearing it open, massive jaws snap shut and start to tug at his flesh—Alaric tries to cry out, but there is no air left; all that gets out is a weak croak that doesn’t even begin to describe the agony that is burning through his veins. The pain is so severe his whole body is straining to get away from the source, but his limbs are too heavy to move. Reality starts to disappear behind a veil of red and he welcomes the darkness that starts gathering at the edge of his vision.  
  
Dimly, Alaric hears a yelp of pain, but he doesn’t know where it comes from. His back is on fire, it feels like it has been ripped open and his spine torn out. He moans weakly, tries to roll onto his side, but he can’t move, even the thought of moving makes him dizzy with more pain.  
  
He is dragged onto his back with no regard to his injury. The world dims even more, and he doesn’t fight against it, would gladly crawl toward the darkness if he could only move. There’s a voice, close to him, talking to him, but the blood rushing through his ears is too loud to make out what it’s saying. A cool hand grips his neck, forces his head back. Something is pressed across his lips and warm liquid runs into his mouth, down his throat. It’s blood, he can taste it, starts to gag at the coppery flavor. Vampire blood, most likely. Alaric instinctively tries to cough it up, but he can’t, his body won’t cooperate anymore.  
  
The voice sounds again, agitated and angry. More liquid pours down his throat, filling his mouth until he has no choice but to swallow. Just one heartbeat later his back begins to tingle, like thousands of ants crawl over it. The pain lessens immediately and he regains his ability to draw air into his starving lungs. He sags back to the ground, no more strength left.  
  
Slowly, one by one, his senses return. He can hear soft rustling all around him, small animals moving in the undergrowth. He tastes blood in his mouth, smells blood on him, senses someone close to him, _next_ to him—  
  
“What are you doing out here?”  
  
It’s the voice that makes him freeze on the spot, turns his insides cold, colder than the blood that was just poured down his throat. The voice from his memories, of the man who changed everything. For the longest moment Alaric feels paralyzed, can’t move a single muscle. Fear slithers through his veins, fighting him for control over his body, trying to get him to run, just _run_ , get away from there, as fast as he can.  
  
Alaric has never, in his entire life, run away from something. If he’s going to die here, now—he won’t go down like this. He fights down the rising panic, struggles against his own body until he can finally open his eyes and blink at his blurry surroundings.  
  
He doesn’t have to look too hard, Klaus is right there, right next to him. Staring down at him, his brow furrowed into a displeased scowl. His eyes gleam softly in the darkness, a slightly golden color. There’s blood on his lips. He’s crouching next to Alaric, studying him. Mouth partly open, fangs visible between his lips. Looking for all the world as if he is planning on feeding on Alaric.  
  
But he doesn’t. Klaus doesn’t do anything but look at him.  
  
Freaking him _the fuck_ out.  
  
 _Get away from me._  
  
Alaric is pretty sure this is what Klaus will read in his eyes, or maybe even hear his thoughts since is mind is screaming at him.  
  
When Klaus moves—dips his head a little closer, cocks it to the side—Alaric flinches. Tries to pull back. Realizes he can’t move because his neck is still trapped in an ice-cold iron grip.  
  
“How did you find me?”  
  
Klaus sounds surprisingly… calm. Not aggressive, quite the opposite. Curious. Nothing about his voice indicates he is about to tear Alaric’s head off. It should be soothing, calm him down.  
  
It doesn’t.  
  
Nor does the sudden move Klaus makes as he leans toward him. For the eternity of one single heartbeat he is convinced that Klaus is about to _kiss_ him—until he feels surprisingly warm breath ghost across his throat. Alaric goes completely rigid beneath the hybrid, stays perfectly still. Waiting for the horribly familiar sensation of fangs pierce his skin, the inevitable pain that follows a bite.  
  
There’s a soft sound, a low growl, rumbling deep in Klaus’s chest, barely audible over the rushing in Alaric’s ears. It’s not meant to intimidate. Or to scare him. It’s something else, something completely different from what the whole situation seems to imply. He’s never heard a sound like this before—and for some reason that will never make sense to him he suddenly has to fight the ridiculously strong urge to roll his head to the side and bare his throat.  
  
And then the moment is gone, as is Klaus, who is suddenly no longer crouching next to him, but standing a few feet away. Arms crossed over his chest, staring down at Alaric’s prone form.  
  
“Damon is looking for his brother.” It’s a statement, not a question. “And he dragged you along to—what? Act as bait while he tries to steal Stefan from my side?”  
  
Now that Klaus is no longer holding him down, Alaric can finally sit up. He runs a hand through his hair, looks around. Finds a dark lump a few feet away, a smaller one close to it. Realizes the wolf no longer has its head attached to its body.  
  
“What the hell…”  
  
Klaus follows his gaze, takes a step closer, eyes on the werewolf. “You made me kill my hybrid.” When he looks back at Alaric, his eyes are cold, hard, his mood switching from relaxed to pissed so fast it’s dizzying to watch. “I should take you as a replacement.”  
  
Alarmed at the low growl Klaus’s voice has become, Alaric tries to get up—  
  
Alaric never gets a chance to. Klaus blurs toward him, something hits him hard across his temple—and everything goes black.  


~~~~*~~~~

  
  
Alaric comes to slowly. His head is reeling, pounding in time with his heartbeat, making it difficult to concentrate. His body feels sluggish, it takes some real effort to move—but there is no pain. There should be, he is sure of that, he _feels_ like his head should be hurting as if something had cracked his skull open… but there’s nothing.  
  
 _Must be the blood_ , he thinks fuzzily. He’s had vampire blood, it must have healed him.  
  
He’s lying on his side on something hard, uncomfortable. The air around him is fresh and cold and he’s shivering, his teeth chattering slightly. Someone is close to him, shifting, readjusting their weight and a little further off there are footsteps rustling through leaves, getting closer. It takes Alaric a moment to convince his eyes to open and he blinks up at a blurry version of Stefan Salvatore. The vampire is clutching his left arm close to his side and his face is strained, he looks like he is in pain. He regards Alaric with an irritated frown, then stumbles closer, his gaze shifting to something behind Alaric’s back.  
  
“They went rabid.” The voice is quiet, subdued. It’s so close Alaric actually jumps in surprise and turns his head sharply, eyes going wide when he finds Klaus sitting on a log behind him. The hybrid is staring off into space, maybe not even aware he’s talking.  
  
“Some of them I killed. The others just… bled out.” He pauses, looks around. Alaric follows his gaze. All around them there are dark shapes on the ground, human shapes, none of them moving.  
  
“They’re all dead.”  
  
The pack, Alaric realizes, Klaus and Stefan must have found the werewolf pack… and killed them. He pushes himself up to his elbows and lets his eyes wander across the place. God, there are so many of them, ten, fifteen people—all dead. And the smell. Now that he’s become aware of the dead bodies so close to them, he can smell it: Blood. A lot of blood, on the people, on the ground… everywhere. His stomach rolls in protest and Alaric closes his eyes, fighting the impulse to take a deep, calming breath.  
  
“What’s _he_ doing here?”  
  
Stefan’s voice sounds closer.  
  
“A present from your brother. Ray found him.” Klaus prods Alaric’s ankle with his boot, grinning wickedly at him when Alaric’s eyes fly open and he can’t help but glare at Klaus. “I saved him from becoming our hybrid’s chew toy.”  
  
“Where is Ray?”  
  
Klaus’s eyes darken, all amusement draining from his face in a heartbeat. “Dead.” He growls. “I put him down; rabid as the rest of them.” The sudden mood shifts are intimidating to watch. Klaus’s relaxed posture turns rigid, his body starts to tremble with barely suppressed emotion. Faster than he should be able to, Klaus is standing near one of the many tents, glaring down at a dead person at his feet.  
  
“I did everything I was told.” He turns around, voice rising. “I should be able to turn them.” Klaus takes a step toward Stefan, tense, glaring at the vampire. “I broke the curse. I killed a werewolf. I killed a vampire…” He growls. “I killed the doppelganger…”  
  
 _Elena._  
  
Alaric flinches, glad that Klaus can’t see him right now. Terrified what might happen if the hybrid picks up on his racing heart, on the hitch in his breath. He looks up at Stefan, eyes wide. What if Stefan is so far gone he’d betray them—betray _her_? Tell Klaus the truth about her, that she isn't dead—He has to calm down. _Now_. He has to keep quiet, think about something different, not give anything away.  
  
Klaus is still staring at Stefan. From where he is lying Alaric, can’t see his face. Stefan looks uncomfortable, doesn’t hold the hybrid’s gaze for long, looks to the side. A look of grief flashing across his face, for a moment he looks as if Elena _had_ died—  
  
 _Stefan is one hell of an actor._  
  
“You look like hell.”  
  
And the moment is over, just like that. Alaric can’t tell if Klaus bought Stefan’s act or if he is merely playing along.  
  
Stefan grimaces, gestures at his arm. “Last I checked, I’m dying. And you don’t want to heal me.”  
  
Klaus’s shoulders tense, then he turns, stalks toward one of the tents. He picks up a bottle from the floor and bites his wrist, pouring some of his blood into the bottle, then hands it over to Stefan.  
  
“Your brother was here.”  
  
Again, Alaric suddenly finds himself at the center of Klaus’s attention. Not a good place to be. Alaric straightens and sits up; looking back at the hybrid with what he hopes is a calm expression.  
  
Behind Klaus, Stefan drinks the blood from the bottle and throws it away. “I know.” Stefan takes a step closer. “I saw him when I was looking for Ray.”  
  
Klaus folds his arms in front of his chest, looking over his shoulder. “He’s trying to get you to go back with him. Trying to save you.” His tone is light, like it’s a joke, something that makes Klaus laugh in his free time.  
  
“I know,” Stefan says again, looking uncomfortable. Squares his shoulders and looks at Klaus, his expression serious. “I won’t break my word. You saved Damon, I’m staying with you.”  
  
Something passes between them, a look Alaric can’t read.  
  
Klaus is so fucking _fast_ when he wants to be. Alaric is still trying to figure out where this conversation might lead, when he is suddenly grabbed by his throat and pushed against the log Klaus had been sitting on earlier. Klaus’s face is close now, so close, his eyes staring into Alaric’s in a way he’s becoming quite used to. “Now,” Klaus breathes against Alaric’s lips, holding his gaze prisoner, “what am I going to do with you?”  
  
Alaric strains against the choke-hold, fighting to get a breath in, his hands digging like claws into Klaus’s grip, trying to dislodge it. He can no longer see anything but the blue of the hybrid’s eyes, and he hears Stefan talking in the background, even though he sounds so far away.  
  
“Let me send him home with a message for my brother.” A dark shadow appears next to Klaus’s head, but Alaric can’t tear his gaze away from the stunning eyes.  
  
“Damon won’t bother us again.”  
  
Alaric tries to drag in a breath, but Klaus’s grip is too strong. Dark spots begin to gather at the edge of Alaric’s vision and he feels his body weaken, sinking back against the log. His ineffective efforts to pry Klaus’s finger away from his neck slowly turn into a weak tugging, until he’s more or less hanging on to the warm hand around his throat instead of fighting against it.  
  
 _Please…_  
  
“Tell him I won’t be so generous next time.”  
  
Whatever Klaus says next, Alaric doesn’t hear. Klaus lets go of him and Alaric crumbles to the ground, dragging air into his lungs, coughing harshly at the same time. It hurts, everything hurts, he can barely swallow, his throat feels swollen. As if he is still being choked.  
  
Dimly, he senses movement close to him, hears voices in the distance, but he doesn’t care. Too busy trying to stop gagging.  
  
Until he’s shoved against the log again. He forces his teary eyes open, blinks rapidly to clear them. Stefan stares back at him, looking serious. As usual.  
  
At least he isn't trying to choke him.  
  
“Tell Damon to leave me alone. I won’t be coming back.” Stefan grabs Alaric by his collar, pulling him closer. “Stay away from us, do not come after us again. _Either_ of you.” For a moment, for just a fraction of a heartbeat Stefan’s eyes soften—or maybe it’s a reflection of the light, because then they are dark again and Stefan smirks. A totally un-Stefan expression.  
  
“Good night, Alaric.”  
  
Stefan moves, Alaric flinches—and then all there is, is darkness.  


~~~~~*~~~~~

 


	4. The ropes have been unbound

  


  


_Damon doesn’t believe him, but that’s okay, Alaric knows he’s a terrible liar. But whining about the situation won’t get him anywhere, he needs to keep himself together and figure out a way how to deal with it._

 

~~~~~*~~~~~

Alaric considers himself an easy-going person. He doesn’t fly off the handle easily; it takes a lot to provoke him. To make him lose his composure. To actually get a reaction out of him. He’s hit a few tight spots over the past few weeks, but, all in all, he’s calm. Controlled.

Right now, one wrong word—and he’ll explode.

He’s tired. He’s miserable. He’s _hurting_. Pissed. He’s sick, sick of vampires, sick of hybrids. Of werewolves. _Dead_ werewolves.

He’s so sick of all of it.

There had been so many corpses. A bloodbath. The campsite had looked worse at dawn, when the day’s first light had crawled over still bodies. Most of them young people, barely older than Alaric’s senior students. Bleeding from their eyes, out of their mouths, like a hideous mask covering each contorted face. A lot of them had had their hearts ripped out, a few carried claw marks all over their bodies, men and women alike. He’d lost count as he’d checked them, all of them, to make sure he didn’t turn his back on possible survivors.

Werewolf or not, supernatural being or not, no one deserves to be slaughtered like that.

Alaric moves slowly, muscles stiff and cramped. He feels worse than after any night spent on the Gilbert couch. The bruises on his throat are gone now; he no longer has trouble breathing or swallowing. But he’s still cold, chilled to the bone. He’d briefly considered going through the tents at the campsite to look for a jacket to… to steal, but he couldn’t do it. Stumbled away from the massacre before he could change his mind.

His ring is gone. He’d been walking for some time when he suddenly realized his hand felt weird, empty. And found the ring gone. He can’t remember when he’d lost it, thinks that either Klaus or Stefan must have taken it. Why, he doesn’t know, is too exhausted to try and figure it out. All he cares about, right now, is getting as far away from the mountains and the blood as he can.

It takes him until midday to finally get back to the spot where Damon had found them yesterday and pushed Elena off the cliff. He pauses on top of it, staring down into the pool of water beneath, lost in thought.

“There you are.”

Alaric flinches so badly he almost loses his footing and falls down.

A cool hand grabs his wrist, pulls him back, turns him around. Damon is standing before him, a rucksack slung over one shoulder, looking him up and down. Wearing that smirk, that shit-eating grin that is usually the last thing Alaric wants to see.

Right now it takes all of his self-composure to not pull Damon into a hug and never let go. It doesn’t last long, maybe the span of a heartbeat, maybe the time it takes for his instincts to decide to make him take a breath—but he’s never been _this_ fucking happy to see his friend.

And then, of course, Damon opens his mouth to ruin it.

“Now, you look like you had fun last night, anyone I know?”

Just like that, Alaric wants to take a swing at him. Wipe that grin off his face. Yell at him that this isn't funny, that he’s been through hell and back. That, behind him, lies a night that defies description. Images he will never be able to get out of his head, no matter how long he lives.

But anger requires strength. Strength he doesn’t have anymore. So, instead, what comes out of his mouth is a tired question.

“Where’s Elena?”

Damon studies him closely. “She’s home, safe and sound. I promised her I’d come looking for whatever the wolf left of you.”

Another joke. On any other day he might look for (and possibly find) concern in Damon’s voice. He knows it’s there, he’s just too drained to listen for it.

And so Alaric starts walking, concentrates on the way back. On keeping upright. Putting one foot in front of the other. It had taken them roughly an hour to get here yesterday, but with him slowed down as he is it will be double to get back.

“Your back looks… interesting.”

Damon is worried. Curious. Dying to know what had happened. Alaric winces. There had been enough dying the previous night. He keeps walking, doesn’t look back, talks to the empty air in front of him.

“The wolf attacked me, tried to rip my spine out.” It certainly felt like it had succeeded; maybe Klaus’s blood had healed that as well. Alaric stops, takes a deep breath. “Klaus saved me, took me to the werewolf pack. All dead. Oh, and—“ He turns, looks at Damon, puts on a fake smile, “Stefan sends a message: leave him alone, he’s not coming back.”

Alaric starts walking again, doesn’t wait for Damon’s reaction. He stumbles over some root, barely catches his balance. Curses under his breath. Keeps going.

“Where’s your ring?”

“Taken. Klaus, maybe Stefan. I don’t know.”

_I don’t care._

A shadow falls across the ground. When Alaric looks up, Damon is standing in front of him. Must have done one of those vampire moves. Too fast to see. Alaric takes a step back, closes his eyes. Annoyed. He should be used to this. Still catches him by surprise.

“Get out of my way.”

Damon doesn’t move. “What happened last night?”

“I told you. Now leave it.”

Damon usually knows when to leave something alone, when Alaric really doesn’t want to talk about it, needs him to shut up about it. Despite his super-senses Damon must be blind today.

“Ric, tell me what happened.”

Alaric takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “I told you, _wolf_ tried to kill me, _hybrid_ saved my ass, _vampire_ knocked me out. That’s it.”

Damon isn't moving.

“Damon, get out of the way.”

Damon shakes his head. Stares at him. Determined. “Nuh-oh, you’re talking. Now.”

Fuck him.

“You wanna know what happened? _Fine_.” Alaric takes a step toward his friend, using his height to tower over him as he holds Damon’s gaze easily, glaring. “They killed them. All of them.” Alaric gestures back the way they came, as if Damon could still see their corpses if he looked hard enough. “They _killed_ a whole pack of werewolves. Sixteen people. Klaus ripped their hearts out, he had to _put them down_ because they went rabid. He was trying to turn them, it didn’t work and now they’re _dead_!”

He’s shouting now, and it takes all he has to stop himself. To take a step back and a deep breath. To calm down enough to drop his gaze and no longer stare at his friend. To force his voice into something resembling his usual tone instead of the angry growl that wants to break out.

“Maybe that doesn’t mean anything because they were werewolves—but they were _people_. No one deserves to die like that—“

Like _her_ , like Jenna. He doesn’t say it, could never bring it over his lips, but it’s there, hangs in the air between them, as if he had spoken it out loud. His eyes are burning, not with tears.

Damon doesn’t say anything, but after a long beat he takes a step back. Gets out of Alaric’s way and starts walking. Not looking back. Giving Alaric some much needed privacy.

They walk in silence from then on.

When they get to the parking lot, Damon hands Alaric his rucksack so he can change his torn T-shirt and they get into the car. Alaric sinks into the passenger’s seat, exhausted and beaten. Closes his eyes and tries to think of anything but slain werewolves and blood and corpses. He asks Damon to drive him to his loft. He can’t deal with Elena right now, not after everything that’s happened. He longs for his own place, a hot shower, his own bed.

Alaric falls asleep to the gentle feel of the car eating up blacktop and the sound of Damon talking softly on the phone.

~~~~~*~~~~~

 

Alaric probably never would have found out about the trip if Jeremy hadn’t called him on the third day.

“Have you seen Elena today? She didn’t come home last night.”

Normally, Alaric makes sure to stay at least three nights a week at the Gilbert house to keep an eye on them. He hasn’t been over ever since he came back home from the Smoky Mountains. Three days ago. The kids usually don’t notice his absence until they run out of groceries.

“Did you call Caroline? Or Bonnie?”

“Yes and yes and no, they don’t know where she is, haven’t seen her. She’s not answering her phone.”

Not the first time she has stayed out for a night. Or ignored their calls. It’s usually linked to a heavy bout of Stefan-related heartsickness that makes her go quiet and depressed. You can live a whole week next to her room without ever hearing a single sound from her. Alaric has been there, done that. Has done his best to get her to come out of her room. To get her to eat something or at least talk to him, with varying degrees of success.

Most of the time it’s best to just leave her alone.

And then there are the nights when she stays at the boarding house. Probably sleeping in Stefan’s bed, spending time in his room. Damon usually calls him to let him know she’s there if she stays for more than a night.

“I’ll ask Damon if she’s at the boarding house.”

Damon doesn’t answer his phone. Not on the first call. Or on the four after that. It takes Alaric six additional tries to get someone to pick up the phone—and it’s not Damon.

“Ric, listen, I’m sorry, I thought he’d told you—“

Elena. Sounding vaguely annoyed and genuinely apologetic. There’s the sound of a car running in the background and Damon’s voice, saying something in that sing-song tone.

Alaric sits up straighter on the couch, straining to pick up the words. “Told me what?”

Elena takes a deep breath. “Promise me you’re not going to freak out.”

Oh, this is bad. Alaric feels his insides twist into a tight knot. His cell phone squeaks in protest as he tightens his grip, slowly getting to his feet. “Where are you?”

A pause. Then, “Damon knows where Stefan is. We’re going to Chicago to find him.”

Of course they are.

Chicago?

“ _Chicago_?”

“Damon knows where to find Stefan—we’re going to save him, Ric, we’re bringing him back—“

“Get Damon on the phone, Elena.”

“Ric, I know what you think—“

“ _Now_ , Elena!”

There’s some rustling. “Ric, my friend, how’s the weather in Mystic Falls? I think they mentioned rain on the news yesterday, guess where it won’t be raining today—“

“Damon, what the fuck are you doing?”

Damon has the nerve to make an exasperated sound. As if Alaric’s outbreak is completely uncalled-for. “I’m looking for my brother. You know the bastard who gave himself over to that hybrid to clean up my mess again.”

Alaric gets off the couch, starts to pace. Crosses the few feet to the kitchen with long strides, before stalking back to the couch. Fighting the urge to _yell_ some sense into his friend. “Why are you taking her with you? Are you nuts?! You said yourself that Klaus doesn’t know she’s alive, it’s not safe there, she could be _killed_ —“

Damon sighs. As if Alaric is playing dumb on purpose. As if they’ve been over this before and how could he even doubt him. “I have a plan, Ric. Elena is part of it. It’s perfectly safe for her. I would have asked you to come along, but you lost your eternity ring. You don’t have her stunning looks and I don’t think you could pull off—“

“Cut the _crap_ , Damon, Elena doesn’t even have a ring, you’re risking her _life_ to get Stefan back!” Alaric barely refrains from punching his fist through the wall next to him. Gives up on trying to keep his voice down. “Are you completely out of your mind? Bring her back, _now_!”

Telling Damon to do something is a sure way to see him do the exact opposite. Just to prove that he can.

This, though, this is worse. Damon isn't ignoring him to spite him. No. Damon has a plan, a fucking master plan to risk his life and, apparently, that of Elena as well. And nothing Alaric could say will make him change his mind.

“I have a brother to save, Ric. I’ll call you later.”

It’s the last he hears from them far too long.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Two days.

_Two fucking days._

48 hours without a word. Without a sign of life. Nothing. No text message, no call, _nothing_.

A drive to Chicago takes about twelve hours. Plus a minimum of six hours of rest at a motel. And then another eighteen hours of driving back. Not to mention the time spent looking for a ripper and a hybrid. A hybrid who cannot find out that Elena is still alive.

Alaric doesn’t get it. A few days ago, out in the woods, Damon was arguing with Elena about how it wasn’t safe for her to be there. How Klaus thought she’d been killed during the ritual. How that made her safe from him, from everything he might want to do to her if he found out she’s still alive.

And now, only a few days later, Damon seems hell-bent on getting her killed. That so-called best friend of his takes her to Chicago to go looking for a mass-murderer and honestly thinks he can keep her safe. And it never occurred to Damon to ask him to come along. Alaric had agreed to go with Elena into the mountains before she gave him back his ring, he would have gone to Chicago without it. He’d never have thought twice about it.

Because _anything_ , even getting his neck snapped by a raging hybrid, is better than this. Than being forced to stay at home, staring at his phone. Praying for either of them to call him, to let him know they’re okay.

He’s angry. Terrified for her safety. Promises himself that, if they get out of there unharmed—and they _will_ (they _have_ to)—he‘s going to give Damon a piece of his mind. Maybe in the form of a stake to his chest. Or vervain in his bourbon. Or a combination of this and a night (a _week_ ) spent in the dungeon.

And Elena?

She should know better. So many people worked so hard to keep her safe, to keep her alive through the ritual—and now she’s doing everything she can to get herself killed. He doesn’t get it; he just can’t understand how she can risk her safety when it came at such a high price.

Maybe he should leave; maybe he should just turn his back on her and go. Start a new life some place else and leave all the horrors behind. No longer be responsible for a teenager with a death wish. She clearly doesn’t need his protection and whether or not he’s there, doesn’t really make a difference.

Yeah, he should just go, leave it all behind and find a new life.

Less than five minutes later he decides to stay. He won’t leave. He has no idea why, but he’ll stay. For now.

And when he gets a text message that says to “meet us at the boarding house” he gets into his car and drives there. Doesn’t even feel angry. Much.

Alaric doesn’t bother knocking, he lets himself in, walks straight up into the living-room. Damon is standing at the fire place, a glass in his hand, staring into the flames. Alaric knows he’s heard him, but he doesn’t react, doesn’t move at all.

Elena is sitting on the couch, her back to the door, equally silent. Alaric can’t see her face, but her huddled posture is all but screaming at him that something has happened. Something bad.

It takes him a deep breath and a slow count to three to fight down the not-so-irrational urge to hug both of them—and then punch Damon’s lights out for good measure. He stays in the doorway, looks at them. Waiting for an explanation.

“Stefan’s gone.”

Damon’s voice sounds calm, controlled. Matter-of-fact.

Elena flinches, curls in on herself. Stays silent. Alaric doesn’t know if she has heard him, if she knows he’s there. He doesn’t move, tries to wrap his head around the meaning of the words. Tries to figure out what exactly they mean. He fears the worst, thinks they killed him, that Damon killed his brother.

_What happened? Who did it? Are you okay?_

“How?” It’s all he can get out through his tight throat.

Elena doesn’t flinch this time, doesn’t turn to look at him. She keeps staring at the fireplace. “We broke up.”

Alaric frowns. “What happened?”

Damon doesn’t look at him, takes a step back, seems to deflate a little. He takes another sip of his drink. “Stefan won’t come back, he’s gone. All ripper-fun. He’s lost to us.”

That sounds a little better than _I drove a stake through his heart_ , but it’s not exactly good news.

“Take her home.” Damon turns away from him, his posture tense and _wrong_. Hurting.

Elena gets off the couch and walks out of the room, giving Alaric a small, sad smile as she passes him. He watches her walk to the front door and turns to look at Damon’s back.

“You okay?”

Damon makes a vague motion with his hand, but stays silent. Alaric gets the message, loud and clear: He’s not wanted here, not now.

Elena doesn’t look up when he joins her in the car a moment later. She’s staring out of the passenger window, eyes a million miles away.

“You’re angry at me,” Elena says, a few minutes into the drive. Alaric turns slightly to look at her and she finally meets his eyes. “You’re right, I shouldn’t have gone. It was a stupid idea.”

“Did he hurt you?”

Elena grimaces. “You mean other than tell me that it’s over? That there’s no way back for us?” Her voice wavers slightly. She shakes her head after a moment. “No, he didn’t touch me.”

Alaric feels something deep inside his chest relax a little and he looks back at the dark road. “What happened?”

Elena is silent, looks out of the window, then down at her hands. “Damon had a plan, I was supposed to vervain Stefan while he distracted Klaus…” She takes a deep breath, turns away from him again, her gaze fixed on the window. “Stefan caught me, he told me… he told me he’s not coming back.”

So much for relaxing. Alaric’s hands tighten around the steering wheel and he has to force himself to keep calm. That’s not even a plan, that’s—

Alaric takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. It’s over, they’re back, they’re _safe_.

“I’m sorry, Ric.” Elena’s voice is so small he almost doesn’t hear it. “I shouldn’t have taken off like that, it was—it was a dumb move… I shouldn’t have done it.”

He has never heard her talk like this. “Does Klaus know you’re still alive?”

She winces, looks surprised for a moment, then shrugs miserably. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him.”

That’s good and Alaric wants to relax again, but he can’t. There’s something else, something she’s not telling him, he can feel it. But, in true Elena-fashion, she apparently doesn’t want to talk about it, whatever it is.

“Elena, promise me something.” She turns her head reluctantly, meeting his eyes for a heartbeat. “Promise me you won’t get yourself killed. Not for him. Not… not after everything.”

She nods, maybe a little too quickly, but he can tell she means it. At least for now.

The fall silent, both lost in their own thoughts.

It happens when he turns a corner and enters a side-street. There’s a flash of movement, a white shadow, illuminated by the headlights for a second—It bounces off the hood and disappears into the darkness again before he gets a good look at it—

Next to him, Elena cries out in shock, bracing herself against the dashboard as he steps on the breaks and brings the car to a sudden stop. They sit in the darkness for what feels like an eternity, breathing heavily.

“Oh my god, we hit something—we _hit_ something!” Elena is fumbling the passenger door open, stumbling out into the dark. Alaric watches her get out, dazed, his gaze snapping to the dark lump on the road, taking in its shape.

They didn’t hit something, they hit some _one_.

Alaric turns in his seat, opens the door—

A searing pain rips through his chest, bringing him to his knees.

He tries to drag in a breath, to scream, to do _something_ —but it feels like his chest is being squeezed by a giant iron fist, completely cutting off his air. He is dimly aware of his knees crashing into a hard, unyielding ground, sending a second stab of pain through his legs. He tries to keep upright, grasping blindly for something to hold onto, but his head starts to swim and everything around him starts moving in crazy circles.

“Oh my god, Ric, we hit a girl, she’s not moving, Ric, she’s not moving—“ Elena’s voice comes from far away.

Heat surges through his body, setting his veins on fire. It centers in his head, in his brain, getting so hot he dizzily expects to feel it melt and pour out of his ears.

“Ric— _Ric_ , are you okay?”

Hands—blessedly _cool_ hands—touch his face, turn his head to the side. A dark shadow appears in his line of sight, but the face is too blurry to make it out.

“Oh my god, you’re burning up—Ric? Can you hear me?”

He tries to talk, tries to nod, but he can’t move, his whole body tense, un-cooperative, muscles locked against the desperate need to breathe. Elena rests her hand on his forehead and starts talking agitatedly. It sounds like she is talking to someone else, but Alaric can’t concentrate on what she is saying. His heart is pounding so hard the sound of his heartbeat is slowly drowning out his surroundings. He can feel himself start to slip away, but he can’t, he just can’t let go, he fights stubbornly to stay conscious…

He doesn’t exactly fall unconscious, but he isn't really awake either. Reality becomes muted, then shifts, but he is still… aware… on some level. It’s cold around him. His skin is burning. The street is cold against his clothes. Elena keeps talking, in the background, her hand stroking his forehead, keeping him grounded.

He doesn’t know how long he drifts, floating somehow in the confines of his own body. It’s a disconcerting feeling, it scares him. Whenever he can gather enough strength he tries to fight against it, tries to claw his way back to full consciousness, to full control over himself. Elena is never far, her voice always close, next to him, above him. She calms down after some time, the panic slowly disappearing from her voice. He wants to tell her he is sorry for scaring her like that, that he’s okay, but he can’t bring his mouth to form the words.

At one point there is a second voice, close to him, on the other side. It asks a question he can’t make out and Elena answers for him.

“The girl—she appeared out of nowhere… she ran in front of the car, it happened so fast—he got out of the car and then he collapsed and he was in pain… I think he hit his head…”

“Sir, sir, can you hear me? What’s his name? Sir?”

It’s difficult to follow them when they talk so fast— And then someone touches Alaric’s head and his vision explodes in a bright light. He flinches, groans, rolls his head to the side.

“Ric—his name is Ric—Mr Saltzman…”

“Mr Saltzman, can you hear me?”

The hand is back on his head, turning it toward the light again. He somehow manages to lift his own hand and push it away.

“’m okay,” he says. Or _hopes_ he says.

“Mr Saltzman, can you open your eyes? Can you look at me?”

He forces his eyes open, blinks an unfamiliar face into view. A man, holding a pen light he is about to shine into Alaric’s eyes again. Elena is next to him, looking down at him as well, eyes wide and worried.

“Mr Saltzman, are you hurt anywhere?”

Slowly, more details come into focus. There is a second man, behind the first, crouching next to a dark shape a few feet away. A shape that isn't moving, lies eerily still, most of it covered by a large shadow.

“I’m okay,” Alaric says, again, and this time it comes out like he means it. He tries to move, to sit up, fighting back a short bout of dizziness. He can’t tear his eyes away from the still form.

“Do you remember what happened?” The man moves into his line of sight, blocking his view. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

“No…”

“Can you get up?”

He can and they get him upright. He sways for a moment, then finds himself being led to the back of the ambulance. The man makes him sit down and starts poking and prodding him, running all kinds of tests. Alaric patiently holds still when he has to, moves when he is told to—and still can’t look away from the dead body. He tries to remember what has happened, but he feels too disconnected with his mind, like he is standing beside himself, watching everything like a bystander. As if it has nothing to do with him.

Slowly, the place fills with people. Some of them come to ask him questions and he answers them as truthfully as he can, giving them what little information he has. Elena stays close to him, never lets him out of her sight. Alaric actually startles a little when a dark head suddenly appears over Elena’s shoulder and icy-blue eyes stare into his own.

“Damon?”

For just a second he thinks he might have imagined his friend, since the vampire literally appeared out of nowhere.

Damon regards him with a worried frown. “Are you okay?”

“Why are you here?”

“I called him,” Elena answers instead, squeezing Alaric’s hand reassuringly.

Alaric notices that none of the surrounding police officers attempt to send Damon away and figures he must have compelled them to let him stay.

“I’m okay,” he says, again. He’s been through worse, much worse. Before any of them can say more, an officer steps up to them.

“I need to speak to Mr Saltzman alone.”

Damon and Elena step away from them. Alaric answers the same questions he’s been asked a few times now, watching his friends talking to each other in the background. Elena seems to be agitated and at one point Damon’s gaze suddenly snaps up and he stares at Alaric for a moment, before he shakes his head and looks back at Elena, saying something. The officer distracts Alaric, asking for his personal papers and when he looks up again, they are both further away, standing next to Damon’s car, arguing. Alaric frowns; he’s missing something, something they are not telling him.

He has no idea how often he has to tell what little he can remember of the accident, but when he is finally allowed to leave, he feels like he’s talking about someone else’s story. He’s tired, more like exhausted, it’s taking him his last reserves of strength to remain upright and walking. What’s puzzling him is that, other than the exhaustion, he feels fine. Good, even. There’s no more pain, no lingering ache, nothing. The pain in his chest is gone as if it had never been there. He runs a hand over his face tiredly, turning to look for his friends.

“Come on, let’s get you home.” Damon’s voice, close to Alaric’s ear, startles him, as does the hand that suddenly grabs his elbow and drags him away from the crime scene. Alaric stumbles along for a step, then pulls his arm free, walking on his own.

Elena is waiting at Damon’s car, hugging herself against the chilly night air. Right, it’s cold, the air is _cool_ against his skin—but Alaric doesn’t feel it. It’s the weirdest sensation, his senses are telling him one thing, but his brain refuses to accept it.

They don’t talk on the drive. Alaric senses more than sees Elena giving him worried glances, but can’t bring himself to react to them. He loses track of how long it actually takes them to get home, but as soon as Damon parks the car, Alaric gets out. He doesn’t bother to turn on the lights, finds his way blindly into the living-room. Alaric sinks into the couch, rubbing a hand over his face. Wishing he could just fall asleep and forget about this night…

“Ric, _catch_!”

Something small hits the side of his head and drops onto his chest. He reaches out to pick it up and have a closer look—and lets out a yelp when a sharp pain sizzles through his fingers, _burning_ him. “What the _hell_ —“

Alaric looks up to find Damon standing next to the couch, looking down at him with a dark frown. “What the hell was that?”

“Wolfsbane.”

Alaric is shaking his hand to get rid of the tingling sensation, but stops. “What?”

Damon picks up the small plant from where it has fallen onto the couch next to Alaric, holding it up for him to have a closer look. It is, indeed, dried wolfsbane. Alaric stares at the shriveled plant, then at Damon. The vampire holds it out to him. “Take it.”

Not having the slightest idea what his friend is getting at, Alaric reaches out, slowly, to touch the plant—and draws his hand back when thousands of tiny needles dig into his skin. Damon is watching him closely and when Alaric looks up at him, there’s a knowing look in Damon’s eyes that sends a shiver down Alaric’s spine.

“Damon, what are you—what the fuck are you doing?”

Damon crosses his arms in front of his chest, staring down at him. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m—you’re—I’m fine. Okay? I feel fine.” Alaric gets off the couch, can’t sit still, not with Damon staring at him like that. “What’s this all about?”

“Elena said your eyes were glowing when the girl died. And that you were having some weird kind of heart attack, you were burning up.” Damon cocks his head to the side. “But you’re fine now.”

Yeah, he knows that already, he’s been there—“What’s that got to do with this?” He looks around, frowns, finally realizing that they are in his apartment, not at the Gilbert house. “Where’s Elena?”

Damon is still _staring_ at him and it’s starting to piss him off.

“She’s waiting in the car until I’ve figured this out.”

“Figured what out?”

“You.”

“Me? Damon, you’re not making any sense, what’s wrong? I’m okay, I feel fine—” And then he goes still, very still as Damon’s words finally sink in. “She said my eyes… were _glowing_? Like a… like a—“ He can’t bring himself to say it, it’s too surreal. Ridiculous.

“Like an animal, Ric.”

“Like a…” Oh god, he _can’t_ —

“Like a wolf.”

Alaric remembers it, now, his eyes burning, hurting so badly he would have tried to claw at them had he been able to move.

“But I—“ It doesn’t make any sense, he’s not—he’s not— there is no way—

“Think about it, it makes sense,” Damon is saying, and Alaric wants to punch him.

“No, it doesn’t—“ he snarls, but Damon keeps talking, ignores him.

“How you snap at everything that goes wrong, you have a worse temper than me lately… And then the wolf in the forest, you told it to stay—and it didn’t attack us. It obeyed you, Ric, it shouldn’t have done that, but it did—“

“I’m not a werewolf, Damon!” Alaric is yelling now and it feels _so fucking good_ to let his anger out like this. “Don’t you think I would have known if my parents had grown hairy every month and started killing people? Don’t you think I would have fucking _noticed_ that?”

How can Damon stay so fucking _calm_?

“Maybe they didn’t trigger the curse.”

And this is—“But I would have known, aren’t you supposed to know this? Feel it?”

Damon shrugs. “I’m no expert on this, Ric.”

“It doesn’t make any sense, I’ve killed before, Damon, you know how many vampires I—we killed, it’s not the first time I—“ Alaric stops, can barely talk past the sudden lump in his throat. “It’s not the first time someone was harmed because of me.”

“Have you ever killed a _human_ before?”

It’s then that it hits him, that he realizes what has happened: He’s killed a person tonight, a girl, someone is dead because of him, she lost her life—and it’s his fault.

“It’s not your fault.”

He can’t look at Damon. “I’ve never—“ he starts, but, again, doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.

“It was an accident. She ran in front of your car, there’s nothing you could have done.”

Damon is right, there is nothing he could have done, it all happened way too fast… and still… and _still_... It wouldn’t have happened if he had not been there.

“You gonna be okay?”

Alaric honestly doesn’t know, he doesn’t feel _anything_. Can’t think anything. He might as well not be there right now. He takes a deep breath, runs his fingers through his hair. Counts to ten. Slowly. When he looks up, Damon is still standing there, looking at him, and Alaric is still a werewolf.

No. He’s _not_ going to be okay.

“Yeah.”

Damon doesn’t believe him, but that’s okay, Alaric knows he’s a terrible liar. But whining about the situation won’t get him anywhere, he needs to keep himself together and figure out a way how to deal with it.

"Try to get some sleep. We’ll figure this out tomorrow."

Damon is right, he needs sleep. He needs to get his head clear, he needs to… he needs to— _fuck_ , he needs to do _something_.

Alaric ends up sitting on his couch, staring at a dried twig of wolfsbane for the rest of the night.

~~~~~*~~~~~


	5. The beast you've made of me

  


~~~~~*~~~~~

  


_"_ Run with me _, Alaric..." Klaus is crouching in front of him now, staring at him intently, his eyes starting to glow again. "Run with me, let me show you how to live!"_

  


~~~~~*~~~~~

  


Somehow, life goes on.

During the next few days Alaric feels like he is running on autopilot. Like his brain has quit its job and he’s doing what needs to be done without much conscious thought.

And then there are the nights when he lies awake in bed and can’t get his brain to shut up.

The basic problem is that he knows _too much_. He knows too much about werewolves, about vampires, about witches. He knows about their strengths, knows how much stronger they are than the average human, knows how some of them heal quickly to the point of being impossible to injure. Or kept down long enough to overpower them.

Snap a werewolf’s neck and it kills them. As does beheading. Or ripping out their hearts. Of course, all of this will also kill any human as well and Alaric has managed to keep his head and his heart where they belong so far. And still, he can’t stop thinking about them as his weak spots now.

Mason Lockwood’s journal scares the crap out of Alaric. He starts to read it after Caroline brings it over, smiling brightly at him as if he’s just won the lottery.

“Tyler says to call him if you have any questions; he’s out of town for the weekend.”

Alaric doesn’t call Tyler—and he stops reading the book after a few pages. There is nothing in there he doesn’t already know, but Mason’s detailed descriptions about how he thinks he is slowly losing his self-control hits a little too close to home. Alaric already doesn’t trust himself anymore. He doesn’t dare to stay at the Gilbert house, too afraid that he might hurt the kids. It doesn’t help that Mason writes about waiting to snap. Waiting for unbearable killing urges that will make him attack everybody he meets. Waiting to lose his mind and drag everyone down with him.

And, eventually, end up killing them.

It doesn’t help, because that’s exactly where Alaric is at and he doesn’t need even more visions of people turning violent and hurting the ones they love.

And so he busies himself with the only task he can think off: He works on restocking his arsenal. He plans where to hide weapons in the Gilbert house so the kids can fight him off when they need to.

It hits him while he’s boiling vervain for the grenades.

Alaric is reaching out for the wolfsbane package to prepare a second kettle when he freezes, hand hovering over the plastic bag, not touching. He stares at the plant, thinking. He’s done this before. Not often, since they rarely had to fight against werewolves, but he’s prepared the grenades a couple of times. He remembers how the wolfsbane smells, how the two scents would mingle in the air. How Damon would complain about the smell _days_ later. He wonders if it was really that bad or if it had been Damon being his usual, annoying self.

Alaric prepares the second kettle, and even before the water starts boiling, there is a faint scratching in his throat and his eyes start to burn uncomfortably. He sets the alarm-clock to ten minutes and retreats into his living-room, determined to see this through.

Alaric realizes his mistake when the clock goes off and he gets up to turn off the stove. For a moment it feels like he’s developed a really bad cold; his throat is sore, it feels swollen, so badly that he can barely swallow. He takes a step toward the kitchen—and starts to sway, reaching out to steady himself against the wall. His eyes start to water, blurring his sight until all he can see are shapes and a light somewhere to his left.

There’s a knock on the door.

Alaric stumbles toward the door, wrenching it open, coming face to face with a dark shadow.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Damon.

The shadow— _Damon_ moves, enters the room in a flash, pushing Alaric aside and disappearing into the direction of the kitchen. Alaric wants to say something, but a coughing fit takes over, strong enough to make him lose his balance and sag against the door. Or the wall. He starts hacking as if he is about to cough up a lung. It hurts, every breath he drags in irritates his throat even more and there’s a metallic taste in his mouth: he’s coughing up blood.

Reality goes fuzzy around the edges, he's dimly aware of being moved— _dragged_ , wonderfully fresh air and a faint bitching in his ear. Words like _idiot_ and _what were you thinking_ fighting for his attention.

When his vision clears again he finds himself sitting— _slumping_ on the couch in the living-room of the boarding house. One angry Damon Salvatore glaring at him over a glass of bourbon. Alaric has no idea how he got here, he can’t remember a drive. Maybe he passed out. Not a good thought.

"What were you trying to do, trying to get yourself poisoned? You have a death wish or something? Because, I gotta tell you, you could have had that a lot easier, all you had to do was ask." Damon sounds mildly annoyed which, in Damon-talk, almost qualifies as worried.

And, also, annoyed.

Alaric rubs his eyes, wincing when he finds them still sore. "I was making grenades..." he starts— and has to stop; his voice is so shot to hell he can barely get the words out. He frowns, brings a hand up to his throat. Ouch. It hurts even worse than he sounds.

Damon is staring at him. "Genius-plan, Fido," he says drily. "In case you've forgotten, you can't be near wolfsbane anymore, it makes you sick. Knocks you out when you inhale it. Or touch it. Or drink it.” He narrows his eyes, fixing him. “You didn’t drink it. Right?"

Alaric glares at him, doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

“What were you doing at my apartment?”

Thank god for vampire hearing, Damon picks up his whispered words. "Elena wanted me to make sure you’re okay. I'll just tell her you're fine and had a run-in with a wolfsbane-grenade. And let you deal with her then."

Right. Elena. He hasn’t talked to her since the accident.

“She’s worried about you.”

Of course she would be. She probably thinks he’s angry at her. He isn't, he just hasn’t been in the mood to talk to her... or anybody.

Damon crosses his arms in front of his chest. “So, what’s up with your hermit-life? You still pissed about us going to Chicago without you? It was perfectly safe for her—“

Alaric shakes his head, his voice still no more than a whisper. “It’s not that.” He takes a deep breath. Winces when it grates across his tender throat and idly wonders how long it’s going to take him to heal this. “I can’t go back to them, not before I’ve taken some… precautions.”

“Precautions?” Damon frowns. “Like what? A leash and collar so Jeremy can take you for a walk in the park?” It’s a joke, meant to be funny.

It isn't.

“No, stakes. Grenades. Silver knives for all I care, hidden somewhere so they can fight me off if I—“

 _If I snap and attack them_. He can’t bring himself to say it.

Damon cocks his head to the side, frowns. “Stakes? In case you’ve forgotten, you’re not a vampire, Ric, you’re a werewolf. For one day every month. _One_. Don’t go visit them on a full moon and you’ll be fine. You won’t run around randomly killing people—“

“You don’t know that.”

Damon is silent. For a moment. Stares at him, as if he’s lost his mind. Maybe he has.

Then he shakes his head. “How often have you seen the Lockwood boy kill someone?”

 _This is different._ It’s on the tip of his tongue… but he can’t say it.

“How often have you seen him flip out?”

“I don’t hang around with Tyler all day, Damon.” His voice is a little stronger as he says it, though not much.

Damon shakes his head. “That’s not the point. If he had killed someone, we’d have been the first to know. Mason Lockwood didn’t go around killing people, in fact, for all the silver knives I stuck into him, he had to be the most controlled werewolf that ever lived.”

“This is different—“

“Why? Because it’s _you_? Because _you’re_ different? A monster suddenly?” Damon’s eyes are on his, studying him, challenging him. Alaric has never heard him talk like this before, and even though he wants to protest, he finds himself listening.

“I get it, Ric, this, all this crap, it’s new and it scares you and it sucks—but you’re not a vampire who’s suddenly flipped his switch, you’re still _you_. A little crazy, maybe even suicidal, but _yourself_. You won’t kill anyone, Ric.”

Images from the accident flash through his mind and Alaric flinches, closes his eyes for a second. “The girl—Claire—she got killed because of this—“

“It was an accident. She didn’t get killed _because_ of this; she was at the wrong place at the wrong time. If anything, you’re in this mess because of _her_.” Alaric starts to protest, but Damon lifts a hand to interrupt him. “Accidents happen, man, you didn’t plan it, but you’ll have to live with it, you can’t go blaming yourself for it—“

“I’m not blaming myself.”

“There’s nothing you could have done. She ran into the car.”

“I know.”

“I know that you know, you have to start to _believe_ it.”

Alaric takes a deep breath. “It isn't that easy.” He can’t really look at Damon. "I'm dangerous to you.”

Damon is silent—for a second—then laughs. The bastard. "Please, Ric, you haven't even changed properly yet. You don't know how strong you are." He spreads his arms wide, grinning at him. "Any sudden desire to tear my throat out?"

Alaric studies him for a moment, allows a small smile. "No more than usual."

But he can no longer ignore it, something about Damon is different. He _feels_ different, wrong. Unnatural. Which, of course, is exactly what he is. What they both are.

“You’re not dangerous, Ric, least of all to me. Wolf or no wolf, you’re no match for me.” Damon grins, that shit-eating, overly self-confident smile that makes you want to hit him. “You might as well just roll over and play nice.”

One thing Alaric already knows? The dog jokes won’t end. Ever. And maybe, for a moment, he hopes they won’t, because they make it easier to deal with everything. A little.

But there is one thing that has been bugging him, something that just won’t make sense.

“Why did the ring work on me?”

If Damon is surprised by the question, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t answer right away, fills a second glass with bourbon and walks over to the couch, handing the glass over to Alaric.

“The way I understand this… I think, before the accident, you were a human with a curse. A curse doesn’t change you, until you activate it; it’s just there. As long as you don’t trigger it, you’re human.”

“I don’t think that makes sense.”

Damon snorted. “Look around you, Ric, what about werewolves, witches and vampires does _make sense_? Whatever happens either works or it doesn’t. You don’t worry about it, you learn from it—and you move on. Because you can’t change it. Trying to make _sense_ of it won’t get you anywhere.”

Damon might have a point there. Alaric takes a deep breath and a cautious sip of the bourbon, wincing. It burns, but it also calms his nerves.

“Let me show you something.”

Damon leaves the room and Alaric follows, glad to be able to walk in a straight line again. Together they go down into the basement and Damon leads the way to the cell. He opens the door and steps to the side. Alaric is about to ask him why they are down here, but then he sees it: Chains. Attached to the walls, to the ceiling.

Alaric has seen something like this before, in the house with Stefan’s victims, it’s the same arrangement. The chains are strong, strong enough to easily hold a…

A werewolf.

“What is this?” Alaric steps into the room, looking at the chains.

Damon follows him inside, pointing at the chains with the glass in his hand. “You like it? I had a look at the Lockwood caverns. They use the same chains.” Damon shrugs. “I have no idea how they’re supposed to keep a wolf back, or even stay on you after the transformation, but hey, I’m not an expert on this, apparently it works and that’s all I need to know.” Damon raises his glass in a mock toast at him, grinning. “Welcome to your private werewolf-holding cell.”

Alaric is at a loss for words. Damon is watching him, obviously waiting for him to say something and Alaric has not the slightest idea what he wants to hear.

“Thanks,” he mumbles after a moment, because, _dammit_ , he hasn’t even been thinking about where he would spend the nights of the full moon before now. “I appreciate it.” _A lot_.

Damon’s gaze is still on him, sharp as ever, no doubt picking up on how badly Alaric suddenly wants to be anywhere but here. Seeing this, the chains, the room he is supposed to be in in a few days’ time to hold him back from ripping something—or someone—apart—it’s unsettling, to say the least. And it’s very efficiently driving home the fact that he has (been) changed, once and for all.

Damon, as usual, isn't affected at all. “ _Relax_ , Ric,” he says airily, patting Alaric’s shoulder as he starts walking out of the cell, “we got you covered on this, we’ll chain you up, close the door, you do your thing—and that’s it.” He’s silent for a moment, still walking, then continues, his voice echoing through the hallway. “And if you’re nice and don’t make a mess of this place I’ll even have breakfast ready for you in the morning, a nice bowl of _Beggin’ Strips_ to start off your day…”

Despite the weird mood he’s in, Alaric finds himself snorting softly at his words. Maybe Damon is right, maybe, this time, all will be well. They are prepared for what is going to happen, they know what they have to do, they know how werewolves work.

Maybe, for once, things will work out for him.

~~~ * ~~~

  


They don’t.  


~~~ * ~~~

It happens so fast he never gets a chance to fight back.

Alaric is outside of his apartment, looking for his keys, about to drive to the boarding house to be locked away for his first full moon. His mind is a million miles away, nervous— _scared to death_ —about the night to come. He doesn’t notice he isn't alone in the hallway.

And then everything happens at once. Alaric is crushed against the closed door with enough force to drive the air out of his lungs in a _whoosh_. Before he can so much as yelp, his arms are taken and wrenched behind him by someone so strong he doesn’t stand the slightest chance of fighting against it. Still he tries to struggle, instinctively pushing back against at least two people, but an equally strong hand gets a grip on his hair and pulls his head to the side, exposing his neck. Previous similar encounters have him anticipate the bite of fangs now, but it’s something smaller that pierces his skin, something that goes in so deep his eyes water from the pain. A needle, someone is emptying a syringe into his neck.

“What the—" he starts to growl, but the next second _liquid fire_ hits his blood stream. His knees buckle instantly, dragging him down to the floor, his arms, his whole body suddenly too heavy to stay upright. Whatever it is, it feels like it's _burning him to ashes_ from the inside, stealing his air. Any protest Alaric could utter dies in a weak gurgle of breath. Darkness approaches him fast and he doesn't even fight it, falls face-first into it. Willingly.

~~~ * ~~~

  
When Alaric wakes up again, everything around him feels dulled, like he isn’t really there. His hearing is wrong, his eyes won’t open, he’s _cold_.

He’s lying face-down on something that is moist and smells of grass. Every breath he takes resonates in his brain, sending shivers of pain through his body. His limbs are on fire, his arms and legs tingle relentlessly, burning so hot that he tries to move them, to get away from the sensation, but to no avail. Every time he tries to concentrate, to get his mind together enough to try and open his eyes, find out where he is, awareness dances out of reach again and he starts drifting.

It takes a long time until Alaric is finally able to blink his eyes open.

He's outside. It's dark around him and most of his body feels cool, only his right side feels warm. There’s the crackle of a fire nearby, it smells of burning wood. Alaric frowns, tries to turn his head to the side and look, but moving seems more difficult than he remembers.

“Took you long enough. I was beginning to think you'd sleep right through this special night."

It doesn’t take him more than a heartbeat to place the voice. It’s Klaus, sounding amused and something else, something Alaric can’t pinpoint. He tries to move his head, to look over his shoulder, but he can't. His arms are bound behind his back and when he tries to cautiously move his legs he finds them immovable as well.

"What the hell..." he mumbles into the ground, his words getting swallowed by the moist earth.

“I couldn’t let you get away.”

Alaric takes a deep breath and moves his head to the side, finally succeeding in getting a better view. He's lying next to a small fire, behind him there is a long log and a hybrid, lounging comfortably on the wood, his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. Klaus is looking down at Alaric with an amused grin, nudging his bound feet with his boots.

"Welcome back to the land of the _wild_."

Totally lost, Alaric frowns, regarding Klaus with a confused expression. "What is this all about?"

Klaus crosses his arms in front of his chest, studying him for a moment. "We're going to have a lot of fun tonight. You do remember what night it is?"

Alaric blinks, totally lost for a second— and freezes. His gaze snaps up to the sky.

_No._

The full moon is looming over the top of the trees, bathing the clearing they are on in some kind of weirdly blurry light. Giving the whole scenery a mystical feeling that is in stark contrast to the horror that is turning Alaric’s insides into a block of ice.

"No..."

Panic sets in immediately. The full moon, this night— the _change_. He’s going to turn into a beast, he’s going to kill—he's supposed to be at the fucking boarding house by now, getting himself locked up in the dungeon. Not outside, in the middle of the forest. Not with Klaus.

"I will show you the joys of being what you are; I will let you taste your freedom, your _power_..." Klaus's voice sounds closer and Alaric flinches, rolls onto his side, starts to fight against the bonds, shaking his head repeatedly.

"I can't be here—"

Klaus interrupts his protest; he grabs Alaric’s bound hands to pull him up and into a sitting position against the log.

"This is exactly where you _need_ to be," he says, leaning forward to study Alaric's eyes intently, his face so close Alaric can see flecks of gold in the hybrid’s eyes, even in the darkness. "We're going to have so much fun!" Klaus’s eyes flare yellow; they _glow_ for a second, causing Alaric to flinch back against the log.

"No," he gasps, horrified, "I can't be here, I can't be _free_ —"

"I know what you are, Alaric, I know what you're about to go through. We're going to go through it together. Before you know it we will hunt together, _kill_ together!" Klaus sounds excited. He grins like a little boy who is about to open his Christmas presents.

Alaric starts struggling in earnest against the bonds, trying to pull his legs back, to get his hands free, shaking his head over and over again.

“No, you can’t do this, let me go!”

Klaus laughs at his struggles, then leans closer, pulling Alaric against his chest as he puts his arms around him in a weird embrace. Alaric feels Klaus’s hands on the rope digging into his skin and he stills, his breath catching in his throat.

“Here, let me help you.” Klaus’s voice is close to his hear, sending shivers down Alaric’s spine. As soon as he can move his hands he reaches up to push the hybrid back, away from him. He tries to get to his feet, but his head starts to swim, his sight blurring for a moment as he sags back to the ground.

" _Run with me_ , Alaric..." Klaus is crouching in front of him now, staring at him intently, his eyes starting to glow again. "Run with me, let me show you how to _live_!" He sounds part excited and part crazy. Alaric can’t decide which part scares him more.

As if Klaus’s words are the magic key Alaric suddenly feels weird. From literally one second to the next. His body starts tingling. It begins in his hands. A bone-deep _ache_ that starts to spread, becomes so sharp he can’t ignore it. Alaric’s gaze snaps down and he lifts his hands to look at them, but they seem normal. He can’t stop staring at them, only dimly hearing Klaus talk in the background.

"It seems like it's starting... Very well then. Take off your clothes."

Alaric blinks. "What?"

Klaus is watching him, grinning. "Take off your clothes."

When Alaric continues to gape at him, not really comprehending, Klaus sighs. “You don't want to tear them apart when you change, take them off."

Alaric opens his mouth to say something— he doesn't even know what, some kind of protest probably— but then a flash of _pain_ rushes through his feet. He gasps for air—and cries out when it travels through his whole body. A burning sensation starts somewhere between his shoulder blades, traveling down his spine and into his legs, his arms, his head, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

“I remember my first full moon,” Klaus says casually, taking a step away from him and sitting back down on the log, hands clasped between his knees. Watching him closely. “I don’t remember anything I did, but I will never forget the transformation. ‘twas pretty painful.”

As if on cue, a blinding flash of hotwhite _pain_ rips through Alaric's side, making him cry out, his hands flying to his side reflexively. Before he can so much as take a breath it's followed by another, straight through his chest this time, taking his breath away. Alaric doesn't have enough air left to voice his agony, merely crumbles to the ground, panting into the grass. His heart is racing and he dimly has the same thought, over and over again.

_It's happening, it's really happening, this is happening to me..._

From that moment on, Klaus’s voice becomes a background noise. Every now and then the pounding in Alaric’s head recedes long enough for him to catch a few words, but they cease to have any meaning to him. They are just sounds, no longer important. Alaric tries to breathe through the agony, but it gets increasingly hard to do it. Breathing becomes _impossible_ when his bones start to break, when his body twists and contorts into incredibly painful positions. When his insides start to rearrange themselves and he feels every tug, every shift. Organs that shrink in size and stop working. His heart giving out completely, shortly before his vocal chords seem to disappear and he can’t make a single sound anymore.

It goes on _forever_ , it doesn't stop. The part of his brain that isn't shrieking in mindless agony starts screaming for mercy, begging pointlessly to make it stop because he just can’t take it anymore, but it makes no difference.

Reality _shifts_ and goes red.

And hot.

And cold.

Pain.

He’s scared. Lost.

Alone.

He’s hurting and he doesn’t know why.

He tries to pull his limbs back, away from the hurt, but he can’t. He tries to crawl away from the agony, but his body won’t cooperate. He tries to scream, but there’s no air left. Where ever he turns, there’s only bright light. And more pain.

And so he gives in. Doesn’t fight anymore. Stays still, stays as quiet as he can. He doesn’t try to get away anymore, doesn’t even try to stay awake. He just lets the pain wash over him and accepts it, because it’s all he can do.

And when it stops – and when he can breathe again – and when he can move again and when he finally, finally stops hurting all over—he throws his head back and _howls_.

~~~ * ~~~

  
The sun is warm on his skin, on his back, on his arms. He’s comfortable, sort of, lying on his side, his head pillowed on his arms. But the smell is… wrong. It smells of fresh grass and warm earth and leaves, all around him. He frowns, his eyes still closed against the bright sun, trying to gather his thoughts, to figure out what is wrong about all this. There should be no leaves in his bed.

“Wakey-wakey.”

The low voice speaks directly into his ear, warm breath tickling his skin. He shivers and opens his eyes, blinking, trying to make out his surroundings. Trying to remember—

He’s outside, lying on grass, on leaves that rustle whenever he moves—and there is a warm body pressed close to his side, familiar in a way and yet… Alaric turns his head to the side to find Klaus watching him through half-opened eyes, a lazy grin playing at the corner of his lips.

“Good morning.”

Klaus’s voice is low and relaxed. It should make Alaric’s skin crawl and scare him, _alarm_ him, but it doesn't. Alaric doesn't even flinch. He lets his gaze wander to the side, where their bodies are touching, both of them naked, as close as they could be. Wondering if there is something he might have forgotten, something he should remember—but his mind is blank.

Klaus’s grin widens.

“Don’t look at me like that, it wasn’t my idea.” He raises his head and props his chin up on a hand, all relaxed and smug. “Apparently you like to cuddle after a kill.”

Alaric doesn’t remember, he doesn’t remember a kill, he doesn’t remember whatever came after, he doesn’t remember anything that happened after the terrible agony that had consumed his thoughts. _That_ he remembers quite clearly, too clearly, and he shudders, almost moans in remembered pain.

"It's amazing, isn't it?"

Klaus is watching him closely, the familiar quirk on his lips absent for once. He almost looks friendly. Curious. Not crazy at all.

Some distant part of Alaric’s brain wants him to move away from Klaus, get some distance between them. Klaus is the enemy, he means danger for everyone and everything he touches. Alaric should get the hell out of Dodge and try to never let him get this close again.

There is dried blood at Klaus’s lips, on the lower half of his face, and Alaric finds himself staring at it, wondering who it belongs to. And, more quietly, in that remote part of his brain that really needs to shut up very soon, he wonders what his own face looks like.

"The way you can smell better, hear better, things you’ve never picked up before. Even in this form.”

Klaus is talking as if he is picking up a conversation they had earlier, but Alaric can't remember. Right now, his memory is a jumble of sounds and smells and movement. And emotions. Thrill, excitement, companionship. The primal _joy_ that rushes through you when you sink your teeth tear into warm flesh—

Alaric gags, flinches back, looks down at the ground and finds his hands covered in blood, up to his forearms— _oh god_.

His head snaps up, eyes wide, staring in horror at Klaus.

“What happened?”

Klaus grins. “You went through your first change and we had a lot of fun together.”

It’s like having two different sets of emotions, both screaming for Alaric’s attention at the same time: A feeling of dread that’s worming its way down his back, _panic_ that wants to turn his insides into ice and steal his breath—and at the same time he feels relaxed and safe, drawn to the man at his side. Part of his pack.

Shit, what is he thinking? He doesn’t _have_ a pack, and even if he had, Klaus wouldn’t be a part of it.

Klaus reaches up to clap Alaric’s shoulder good-naturedly, causing Alaric to wince. “You’re a natural, mate, it was a joy to watch you go after your prey.” He gives him a light shove. “Admit it, you loved it! The thrill of the hunt, the kill—all feral, out of control, waiting for your alpha to join you at the feast…”

Klaus is mocking him, enjoying his panic, his fear. Doing his best to make it even worse for him. And it works.

“What happened?” Alaric barely gets the words out, afraid of the answer. He sees himself hunting down men, women, children, people camping peacefully in the woods, unaware of the dangers of the full moon. “Who—how many did I… did I kill?”

Klaus doesn’t answer right away, he’s studying Alaric’s face, a cruel smile twisting his lips.

And then he laughs.

“Relax, Alaric, you need to lighten up.” He pulls his hand back, eyes twinkling. “You didn’t kill a human—or a vampire for that matter. This time.”

Alaric wants to feel relieved. But he can’t. “This time?”

Klaus shrugs. “The way I see it your so-called ‘friend’ is going to make sure you won’t get away from him on the next full moon. I don’t know if he’s strong enough to hold you back when the wolf inside you wants to hunt. I don’t know if he has you under control like I do, if he can keep you at his side when you’re dying to _kill_ …”

Alaric closes his eyes, shaking his head slightly, feeling defeated and tired suddenly. “Why are you doing this?”

“What am I doing?”

“Dragging me out here, setting me free, letting me run around—when I’m dangerous… I could have hurt—I could have _killed_ someone tonight!”

“You couldn’t have, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I wouldn’t have allowed it.”

Alaric turns his head to look at the hybrid, looking for signs in his face that he’s joking, pulling his leg somehow, another of those twisted jokes that only Klaus seems to find amusing. But there isn't, Klaus is looking at him with a calm, sincere expression. Which, in itself, is almost enough to freak Alaric out even more.

“How can you be so sure—how can you hold me back?” Alaric shakes his head. “I would have been safe in the dungeon, I wouldn’t have been able to hurt anyone—”

“No.” Klaus interrupts him, shaking his head. “You would have suppressed your nature; you would have gone against your instincts, pushing them away again and again and again until you would snap. _Explode_. Tear someone’s throat out and no one could stop you.” Klaus’s eyes start to glow as he talks, they flare to life with an intense, _feral_ fire. “Your instincts are strong, stronger than others of our kind I’ve met.”

“You’re not a werewolf.”

Klaus shrugs. “No, I’m not, I’m more than that. But I can feel you, I can feel your strength, I know what you’re longing to do, Alaric. You can’t hide that from me, not anymore.”

And then, suddenly, a piece of the puzzle falls into place and everything makes _sense_.

“Your blood.” He doesn’t make it a question, because it isn't, it isn't and he knows, should have _seen_ this, somehow, should have figured it out sooner.

Klaus nods. “Yes. My blood, it’s strong in you, it _makes_ you stronger. I had hoped it would turn out like this. You were the right choice as my vessel.”

“You planned this—you _knew_ about this?”

Alaric sits up now, turning his head to stare at the hybrid. Klaus is still relaxed, lying on his back, hands laced behind his head.

"That you inherited the curse? Yes, I did, your wife— _ex_ -wife found out about it. It's amazing what she can dig up if you give her enough time— but you would know that, wouldn't you? Seeing how she managed to find us _bloodsuckers_..."

Alaric feels a familiar pang at the mentioning of Isobel and he flinches, looking away. "Why did you do it?"

"Why did I do what?" Klaus seems to enjoy making Alaric tell him specifically what he wants to talk about.

"Why did you take _me_ for a vessel. You could have taken everybody, why me?" Alaric figures when he finally has the man in front of him to talk to, he might as well try to get some answers for questions that have been bugging him for months now.

Klaus stretches, muscles rippling beneath his pale skin. For a moment Alaric thinks that maybe the nudity should bother him, that it should be awkward, but it isn't. He's used to waking up next to strange men from his college days and also, as fucked up as it is, Klaus has been _wearing his skin_ for over a week, there's nothing on Alaric he hasn't seen yet.

Klaus is studying him lazily, running his eyes across Alaric's body as if he can read his mind, as if he knows exactly what Alaric is thinking. He wouldn’t put it past him. For a moment Alaric wonders if he should shift away, but he doesn't.

"I had my reasons," Klaus says finally. "The most obvious, of course, the fact that you were the closest expendable ‘human’ to Elena. The Salvatores trust you, I knew they would never suspect something could be wrong with you, even if you behaved a little out of character. Which, if you think about it, is a little sad, don't you think?"

Alaric can't fight back a wince, remembers his own surprise when they told him it took them a long time to realize it wasn't him.

"It was fun wearing you, your… _skin_ is very comfortable... But you should maybe have a look at your wardrobe, your fashion-sense is worse than mine and that's saying something."

Klaus sits up, pulls his legs up and lets his hands hang between his knees. Looks at Alaric, his expression turning serious. "You're going to be my first hybrid. Well, maybe not exactly my _first_ hybrid since I won't waste your ass before I know exactly how it works. But once I know, once I find out what I need, how to do it, you're in, part of my family, of my pack. My firstborn if you will."

Just like everything he says, Klaus sounds like he has already made up his mind about it. As if it isn’t _Alaric’s_ life he’s talking about, just some minor plans he has for the weekend. Go to the disco, have a great time, fuck up Saltzman’s existence even more.

Alaric’s surprise must show on his face.

“Relax, mate,” Klaus says, slapping him on the shoulder. Again. It’s _annoying_. “It’s not that bad. Think about it, you will no longer have to turn on a full moon, you will be in control of the wolf, of the beast inside you, you won’t _have_ to hurt people… if you don’t want to. You will be stronger than vampires or werewolves.” He’s silent for a moment. “You will be able to defend those you love a lot better. I’m doing you a favor with this.”

 _I only need to protect them from_ you, Alaric thinks bitterly, but doesn't say it. He doesn't meet Klaus's eyes, runs a hand through his hair. It's full of leaves and dirt. Alaric lets his gaze wander, realizing distractedly that he hasn't got the slightest idea where he is. It's funny how often he finds himself lost in the woods these days.

Or trapped in a situation he just can’t find a way out of.

Klaus’s words, and his promise, are tempting. Alaric has only been through the change once—and he can’t imagine going through it on a monthly basis for the rest of his life. And it’s not the pain that is freaking him out, it’s the fact that he has no means to find out what he has done. That he doesn’t know if he hurt or killed someone. That he doesn’t know what Klaus did to him. Or _let_ him do.

He doesn’t trust Klaus, it’s as simple as that. He has no reason to. All the man has ever done to him is toy with him, use him as he saw fit. Whatever he is promising him now, control of the wolf, of himself—it will come at a price. A price Alaric can never be sure will be worth paying.

He won't do it. Alaric decides, there and then, that he won't let Klaus use him again. If he has to stay like this, if he has to stay a monster, a supernatural being, then he's going to stay like this on his own terms. He will find a way to deal with it. Or get someone to put him out of his misery.

Klaus is watching him closely, that amused smile playing at the corner of his lips again. By now Alaric is pretty sure that the hybrid does have some sort of mindreading power, that he knows exactly what is going through Alaric’s head. And it amuses him.

There is an uncomfortable silence for a moment, but then Klaus gets to his feet and starts walking. When Alaric doesn’t follow him right away he stops, looking back at him over his shoulder.

“Are you coming? Clothes are this way.”

Of course they are.

~~~~~*~~~~~


	6. Howl

  


~~~~~*~~~~~

Alaric knows he’s all kinds of messed up when he finds himself thinking that, out of everything that happened to him the night before, Klaus dropping him off at his apartment is the weirdest part of his first full moon.

They don’t talk much during the drive and it’s kind of creepy (though not surprising at all) how Klaus knows the way to Alaric’s apartment like he does. He’d taken Alaric on a trip through the woods that finally ended at the campfire Alaric dimly remembered from the night before. Their clothes had still been there; luckily he had been able to salvage his jeans and his shoes, but his shirt had been ruined. Cue for weirdest moment number two in the form of Klaus throwing him one of his shirts like he had prepared for this.

Which he obviously had.

Not creepy at all.

When Klaus finally stops the car in front of Alaric’s apartment building, Alaric remains in the car for some weird seconds, staring out of the window. Feeling like he is waiting for something.

“See you in a month,” Klaus says suddenly and he sounds like he is smiling. Alaric doesn’t turn to check, getting out of the car without looking back. Without saying a word. Klaus chuckles and then drives off, his car disappearing around a corner. And then he’s gone.

Like he was never there. Like nothing out of the ordinary happened.

Alaric lets out a weary sigh and goes inside.

There are thirteen missed calls on his phone, nine from Elena, four from Damon. Also, seven text messages. All of them variations of the same theme: _Where the fuck are you?_

Alaric decides he needs a shower before he can deal with them, longing to wash the traces of the last night off his body. He tries to figure out what to tell the others, if it’s even safe to meet them. Who knows how he is going to react to a vampire now that he has fully changed? Now that he is no longer a human with a curse but a full-fledged werewolf? Maybe even an improved version, if what Klaus told him about the blood inside him is true. He could lose it the moment he becomes aware of Damon’s presence and attack him. Bite him. _Kill_ him.

Not an option.

The shower makes him feel a little better; at least he is properly awake now. Alaric walks into his bedroom and gets dressed, all the while thinking about what to do now. He is pulling on a shirt when a shudder runs down his back, freezing him in his movements.

He’s not alone anymore.

There’s only one person who could and would sneak up on him like this. Alaric turns around, holding up his hand to stop Damon before he can say anything.

“Look, I know I was supposed to—“

It’s not Damon.

Standing in the middle of his apartment is a man Alaric has never seen before. He is smaller than Alaric, with short, blond hair and a scar at his neck that starts near his Adam’s apple and disappears beneath the white shirt he is wearing. Blue eyes are watching Alaric, staring at him with a weirdly intense gaze, staring right into his eyes. The man doesn’t move or talk, he just keeps looking at him, his face relaxed and calm… and yet—something is off about him. Something other than the fact that he is inside Alaric’s apartment, and shouldn’t be.

“Who are you?”

When the stranger speaks, it’s with an air of authority that somehow commands you to listen and not interrupt until he is finished.

“Who I am is not of importance.”

Alaric wants to object, to him it’s very much of importance who or what can enter his apartment without being invited in—but the words won’t come over his lips, like some sort of silence spell has been placed on him.

“I have been sent here to confirm that it is indeed _you_ who will assist us in recovering what was lost so long ago.”

Alaric doesn’t understand a word the man is saying. A small part of his mind starts wondering if he has finally lost it and is imagining things.

“We are aware of the loss you and your friends have suffered and of the trials that have been placed upon you. If any of this could have been avoided, it would have been.”

Despite the fact that the man clearly has some sort of power that is keeping Alaric under his control, Alaric finds himself starting to get irritated. Whoever ‘they’ are, they had the power to stop it? Any of it? _The loss you have suffered_ … They could have saved her? They could have saved Jenna?

“I will come back for you when the time is right.”

Right before Alaric’s eyes, the man starts to change. In one incredibly fluid motion he crouches to the floor, and shifts. Less than a heartbeat later there is a grey wolf in the man’s place. His clothes have disappeared; there is only the wolf that lets out a loud howl that reverberates through the apartment. Yellow eyes flash dangerously and suddenly the beast _leaps_ at Alaric, goes right for his chest—and disappears, inches before it would have touched him.

Alaric gives a surprised shout and stumbles back, his back hitting the open wardrobe door. He stumbles, can just barely keep his balance.

“What the hell,” he shouts at the empty apartment, not expecting an answer and not getting any.

It takes him a long moment to get his racing heartbeat under control.

_When the time is right?_ There is going to be more of this?

Alaric sinks down onto his bed, staring blindly ahead. He thinks he should feel something right now, anger or surprise or at least some sort of annoyance, but he is too stunned, too much has happened. There is only one thought on his mind.

_No._

_No more._

~~~~~*~~~~~

**A/N** : Yes. The end. For now. I am working on the next part. And I am looking forward to writing it. :D


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